UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


FRONTISWECE— Irving,  Vol.  One 


THE    WORKS   OF 

WASHINGTON  IRVING 

THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

LEGENDS  OF  THE  CONQUEST  OF  SPAIN 
A  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON    IRVING 

By    RICHARD    HENRY    STOUDARD 
WITH    FRONTISPIECE 


NEW    YORK 
P.   F.  COLLIER    &    SON 

MCMIV 


2,  05  O 
1= 


CONTENTS 


VOLUME    ONE 
Life,  by  Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  ......  ,  .........  .  ..............      7 


I     THE  SKETCH-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  Gent. 

The  ................  .  .......  .  .^  ,  ........................  356 

Royal  Poet  .....................  .  .'.  ....................  .  .......  126 

Art  of  Book-Making  ..............................................  119 

Boar's  Head  Tavern,  E&stcheap  ...........  .,  .....  ................  153 

•Broken  Heart,  The^X.    .     ..............................  .  .....  113 

-Christmas  ......  ff^j^r  ..................  ......  ...................  218 

^Ohristmas  Day  .  (V^J  ............  .  ...........  .  ................  ...  243 

rf  Christmas  Dinnei^JPne  ...........................................  257 

vyJjtChristmas  Eve  .....  .  .............................................  .  231 

"  J  Country  Church,  The  ............................................  140 

(^•English  Writers  on  America.  \sC.  .................  .  ..............     97 

-John  Bull  ...........................  .................   ........  ...  336 

-  Little  Britain  .......  .  .............................................  272 

Mutability  of  Literature^  ........................................  165 

Philip  of  Pokanoket.r,Vrv..«...  ...................................  318 

-Pride  of  the  Village-A^^J  ........................................  347 

Van  Winkfe..  -'\£g%..  .................................  .  .....     79 

.(.*sy.  ...............  ...  ..  ...........................    63 

Rural   Funeral;  The  .......  ......  .................................  176 

•Rural  Life  in  England  .....  .....................................  106 

(3) 


tj£j  Sleepy  Hollow,  The 

—Specter  Bridegroom,  Th<(A^ 191 

p-  Stage  Coach,  The 224 

UtA-  Stratford-on-Avon 287 

-The  Inn  Kitcfi&ft 188 

Traits  of  Indian  Character 307 

Westminster  Abbey. . .  .^^ 206 

*Widow  and  her  Son,  Ttfe.V</ 146 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  CONQUEST  OF  SPAIN 
THE  LEGEND  OF  DON  RODERICK 

I. — Of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Spain 

Of  the  misrule  of  Witiza  the  Wicked 405 

H.— The  Rise  of  Don  Roderick— His  government 410 

ITT, — Of  the  loves  of  Don  Roderick  and  the  Princess  Elyata. .  413 

IV.— Of  Count  Julian 417 

V.— The  Story  of  Florinda 419 

VI. — Don  Roderick  receives  an  extraordinary  embassy 425 

VII. — Story  of  the  marvelous  and  portentous  tower 428 

VIII.— Count  Julian— His  fortunes  in  Africa— He  hears  of  the  dis- 
honor of  his  child — His  conduct  thereupon 435 

IX. — Secret  visit  of  Count  Julian  to  the  Arab  Camp — First  ex- 
pedition of  Taric  El  Tuerto 441 

X. — Letter  of  Muza  to  the  Caliph — Second  expedition  of  Taric 

El  Tuerto 444 

XI. — Measures  of  Don  Roderick  on  hearing  of  the  invasion- 
Expedition  of  Ataulpho — Vision  of  Taric 448 

XII.— Battle  of  Calpe— Fate  of  Ataulpho 451 

XIH. — Terror  of  the  country— Roderick  rouses  himself  to  arms  456 
XIV. — March  of  the  Gothic  army — Encampment  on  the  banks 
of  the  Guadalete — Mysterious  predictions  of  a  Palmer — 

Conduct  of  Pelistes  thereupon 460 

XV. — Skirmishing  of  the  armies — Pelistes  and  his  son — Pelistes 

and  the  bishop 464 

XVI. — Traitorous  message  of  Count  Julian 467 

XVII.— Last  day  of  the  battle 469 

XVIII.— The  field  of  battle  after  the  defeat— The  fate  of  Roderick  474 
APPENDIX 

Illustrations  of  the  foregoing  legend— The  tomb  of  Roderick 478 

The  cave  of  Hercules. . .  . .  478 


LEGENDS  OF  THE   SUBJUGATION  OF  SPAIN 

I. — Consternation  of  Spain — Conduct  of  the  Conquerors — Mis- 
sives between  Taric  and  Muza 484 

II. — Capture  of  Granada — Subjugation  of  the  Alpuxarra  Moun- 
tains    „ 488 

HI.— Expedition  of  Magued  against  Cordova— Defense  of  the 

patriot  Pelistes 493 

IV.— Defense  of  the  Convent  of  St.  George  by  Pelistes 496 

V. — Meeting    between    the    patriot   Pelistes   and   the    traitor 

Julian 500 

VI. — How  Taric  El  Tuerto  captured  the  city  of  Toledo  through 
;  the  aid  of  the  Jews,  and  how  he  fouad  the  famous  talis- 

manic  table  of  Solomon 502 

VII. — Muza   Ben  Nozier's  entrance  into  Spain  and  capture  of 

Carmona 507 

VIII. — Muza  marches  against  the  city  of  Seville 510 

IX.— Muza  besieges  the  city  of  Merida 511 

X.— Expedition  of  Abdalasis  against  Seville  and  the  "  land  of 

Tadmir  " , 517 

XI.— Muza  arrives  at  Toledo — Interview  between  him  and  Taric  524 
XII. — Muza  prosecutes  the  scheme  of  conquest— Siege  of  Sara- 

gossa — Complete  subjugation  of  Spain 527 

XIII. — Feud  between  the  Arab  Generals — They  are  summoned  to 

appear  before  the  Caliph  at  Damascus— Reception  of  Taric  530 
XIV. — Muza  arrives  at  Damascus— His  interview  with  the  Caliph 

— The  table  of  Solomon — A  rigorous  sentence.., 534 

XV. — Conduct  of  Abdalasis  as  Emir  of  Spain 537 

XVI.— Loves  of  Abdalasis  and  Exilona 541 

XVII.— Fate  of  Abdalasis  and  Exilona— Death  of  Muza 544 

LEGEND   .OF   COUNT   JULIAN    AND    HIS    FAMILY.. „.       ..  549 


LIFE  *OF    WASHINGTON    IRVING 

(VOLUME  ONE) 


LIFE  OF 

WASHINGTON    IRVING 

BY 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 


THE  life  of  Washington  Irving  was  one  of  the  brightest 
ever  led  by  an  author.  He  discovered  his  genius  at  an  early 
age ;  was  graciously  welcomed  by  his  countrymen ;  answered 
the  literary  condition  of  the  period  when  he  appeared;  won 
easily,  and  as  easily  kept,  a  distinguished  place  in  the  re- 
public of  letters;  was  generously  rewarded  for  his  work; 
charmed  his  contemporaries  by  his  amiability  and  modesty; 
lived  long,  wisely,  happily,  and  died  at  a  ripe  old  age,  in  the 
fullness  of  his  powers  and  his  fame.  He  never  learned  the 
mournful  truth  which  the  lives  of  so  many  authors  force 
upon  us : 

"  Slow  rises  worth,  by  poverty  depressed" ; 

he  never  felt  the  ills  which  so  often  assail  the  souls  of  scholars : 
"  Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron  and  the  jail" ; 

he  never  wrote  for  his  bread  like  Johnson  and  Goldsmith, 
and  never  hungered  like  Otway  and  Chatterton ;  but  lived  in. 
learned  ease,  surrounded  by  friends,  master  of  himself  and 
his  time — a  prosperous  gentleman.  Born  under  a  lucky  star, 
all  good  things  sought  him  out,  and  were  turned  by  him  to 
delightful  uses.  He  made  the  world  happier  by  his  gifts, 
and  the  world  honors  his  memory. 

(7) 


8  Cife  of  U/asl?ii?$toi?  Iruii>$ 

The  ancestry  of  Washington  Irving  reaches  back  to  the 
days  of  Robert  Bruce,  who,  when  a  fugitive  from  the  court 
of  Edward  I.,  concealed  himself  in  the  house  of  William  De 
Irwin,  his  secretary  and  sword-bearer.  William  De  Irwin 
followed  the  changing  fortunes  of  his  royal  master ;  was  with 
him  when  he  was  routed  at  Methven ;  shared  his  subsequent 
dangers;  and  was  one  of  the  seven  who  were  hidden  with 
him  in  a  copse  of  holly  when  his  pursuers  passed  by.  When 
Bruce  came  to  his  own  again,  he  made  him  Master  of  the 
Rolls,  and  ten  years  after  the  battle  of  Bannockburn  gave 
him  in  free  barony  the  forest  of  Drum,  near  Aberdeen.  He 
also  permitted  him  to  use  his  private  badge  of  three  holly 
leaves,  with  the  motto,  Sub  sole  sub  umbra  virens,  which 
are  still  the  arms  of  the  Irving  family.  Our  concern,  how- 
ever, is  not  with  the  ancestors  of  Irving,  but  with  his  father, 
William  Irving,  who  was  from  Shapinsha,  one  of  the  Orkney 
Islands,  and  who,  on  the  death  of  his  mother,  determined  to 
follow  the.  sea.  He  was  born  in  1731,  a  year  before  Wash- 
ington, and,  when  his  biographers  find  him,  was  a  petty 
officer  on  board  of  an  armed  packet-ship  in  the  service  of  his 
British  Majesty,  plying  between  Falmouth  and  New  York. 
At  the  former  port  he  met  and  became  enamored  of  Sarah 
Sanders,  a  beautiful  girl  about  two  years  younger  than  him- 
self, the  only  daughter  of  John  and  Anna  Sanders,  and 
granddaughter  of  an  English  curate  named  Kent.  They 
were  married  at  Falmouth,  May  18,  1761,  and  two  years 
and  two  months  later  embarked  for  New  York,  leaving 
the  jbody  of  their  first  child  in  an  English  graveyard.  Wil- 
liam Irving  now  abandoned  the  sea,  and,  entering  into  trade, 
was  prospering  in  a  small  way  when  the  Revolution  broke 
out.  His  house  was  under  the  guns  of  the  English  ships  of 
war  in  the  harbor,  so  he  concluded  to  remove  to  the  country, 
and  took  refuge  with  his  family  in  Rahway,  New  Jersey. 
He  was  safer,  perhaps,  than  he  would  have  been  in  New 
York;  but  business  was  at  an  end.  He  was  pointed  out  as 
a  rebel,  and  British  troops  were  billeted  hi  his  best  rooms, 
while  the  family  was  banished  to  the  garret;  so  he  made  up 


Cife  of  U/asl?ip^top  Irvip<j  9 

his  mind  to  return  to  New  York,  He  was  still  a  rebel,  as 
well  as  his  wife,  who  supplied  prisoners  with  food  from  her 
own  table,  visited  them  in  prison  when  they  were  ill,  and 
furnished  them  with  clothes,  blankets,  and  the  like.  "I'd 
rather  you'd  send  them  a  rope,  Mrs.  Irving,"  said  the  brutal 
Cunningham,  who,  nevertheless,  allowed  her  charities  to 
pass  through  his  hands. 

Washington  Irving,  the  youngest  of  eleven  children,  and 
the  eighth  son  of  William  and  Sarah  Irving,  was  born  to- 
ward the  close  of  these  troublous  times  in  New  York,  on 
April  3,  1783.  The  house  in  which  he  was  born,  a  plain, 
two-story  dwelling  in  William  Street  (131),  between  Fulton 
and  John,  has  long  since  disappeared,  as  well  as  the  house 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  same  street  (128),  to  which  the 
family  moved  within  a  year  after  his  birth.  If  the  boy 
differed  in  any  respect  from  the  average  boy,  the  particulars 
have  not  reached  us.  The  earliest  recorded  anecdote  in 
which  he  figures  connects  him  with  the  illustrious  name  of 
Washington,  who  entered  the  city  with  his  army  not  many 
months  after  his  birth.  The  enthusiasm  which  greeted  the 
great  man  was  showed  by  a  young  Scotch  maid-servant  of 
the  family,  who  followed  him  one  morning  into  a  shop,  and 
showing  him  the  lad,  said:  "Please,  your  honor,  here's  a 
bairn  was  named  after  you."  He  placed  his  hand  on  the 
head  of  his  little  namesake  and  blessed  him. 

Master  Irving  was  not  a  prodigy ;  for  at  the  first  school, 
kept  by  a  woman,  to  which  he  was  sent  in  his  fourth  year, 
and  where  he  remained  upward  of  two  years,  he  learned  lit- 
tle beyond  his  alphabet ;  and  at  the  second,  where  boys  and 
girls  were  taught,  and  where  he  remained  until  he  was  four- 
teen, he  was  more  noted  for  his  truth-telling  than  for  his 
scholarship.  He  distinguished  himself  while  at  school  by 
playing  the  part  of  Juba  in  Addison's  Cato,  at  a  public  ex- 
hibition, and  by  amusing  the  audience  by  struggling  at  the 
same  time  with  a  mass  of  honey- cake  which  he  was  munch- 
ing behind  the  scenes,  when  he  was  suddenly  summoned 
upon  the  stage.  The  first  book  he  is  known  to  have  read  with 


10  Cife  of  U/asbiij^toi) 

pleasure  was  Hoole's  translation  of  "Orlando  Furioso,"  which 
fired  him  to  emulate  the  feats  of  its  heroes,  by  combating  his 
playmates  with  a  wooden  sword  in  the  yard  of  his  father's 
house.  His  next  literary  favorites  were  "Robinson  Crusoe" 
and  "Sindbad  the  Sailor,"  and  a  collection  of  voyages  and 
travels,  entitled  "The  World  Displayed,"  which  he  used  to 
read  at  night  by  the  glimmer  of  secreted  candles  after  he  had 
retired  to  bed,  and  which  begot  in  him  a  desire  to  go  to  sea 
— a  strong  desire  that  by  the  time  he  left  school  almost  rip- 
ened into  a  determination  to  run  away  from  home  and  be  a 
sailor.  It  led  him,  at  any  rate,  to  try  to  eat  salt  pork,  which 
he  abominated,  and  to  lie  on  the  hard  floor,  which,  of  course, 
was  distasteful  to  him.  These  preliminary  hardships  proved 
too  much  for  his  heroism,  so  the  notion  of  becoming  a  gallant 
tar  was  reluctantly  abandoned. 

Irving's  first  known  attempt  at  original  composition  was 
a  couplet  leveled  against  a  larger  schoolfellow,  who  was  at- 
tentive to  the  servant  girl  of  his  master,  and  who  was  so 
enraged  at  the  fun  it  occasioned  that  he  gave  the  writer  a 
severe  thrashing.  The  young  poet  was  discouraged  in  his 
personalities,  but  not  his  art;  for  he  contributed  metrical 
effusions  to  the  "Weekly  Museum,"  a  little  periodical  of  four 
pages,  published  in  Peck  Slip,  to  which  he  also  contributed 
moral  essays.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  wrote  a  play,  which 
was  represented  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  stimulated  his 
boyish  fondness  for  the  stage.  He  was  abetted  in  his  dra- 
matic passion  by  James  K.  Paulding,  who  was  between  four 
and  five  years  his  senior,  and  was  residing  with  his  brother 
William  Irving,  who  had  married  his  sister.  The  theater 
was  situated  in  John  Street,  between  Broadway  and  Nassau, 
not  far  from  his  father's  house,  from  which  he  used  to  steal 
to  see  the  play,  returning  in  time  for  the  evening  prayer, 
after  which  he  would  pretend  to  retire  for  the  night  to  his 
own  room  in  the  second  story,  whence  he  would  climb  out  of 
the  window  on  a  woodshed,  and  so  get  back  to  the  theater, 
and  the  enjoyment  of  the  after-piece.  These  youthful  esca- 
pades, if  detected,  would  no  doubt  have  subjected  him  to 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii7$top  Irvii)$  11 


a  severe  lecture  from  his  father,  who  was  a  strict,  God- 
fearing man,  and  to  tender  reproaches  from  his  mother. 
"Oh,  Washington!"  sighed  the  old  lady,  "if  you  were 
only  good!  " 

After  a  year  or  two  more  of  school-life,  during  which  he 
acquired  the  rudiments  of  a  classical  education,  he  concluded 
to  study  law,  a  profession  to  which  his  brother  John  had  de- 
voted himself  ,  and  accordingly  entered  the  office  of  Henry 
Masterton,  with  whom  he  remained  until  the  summer  of 
1801,  when  he  transferred  his  services  to  Brockholst  Living- 
ston, and,  on  that  gentleman  being  called  to  the  bench  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  State  in  the  following  January,  he  con- 
tinued his  legal  pursuits  in  the  office  of  Josiah  Ogden  Hoff- 
man. Why  Irving  conceived  that  he  had  the  makings  of  a 
lawyer  in  him,  we  are  not  told  ;  nor  why  his  father,  who  was 
averse  to  law,  should  have  permitted  him  to  mistake  his  tal- 
ents. It  was  not  a  very  dangerous  mistake,  however,  for  he 
soon  awoke  from  it  ;  nor  was  it  sedulously  indulged  in  while 
it  lasted;  for  when  not  employed,  like  Cowper  before  him,  in 
giggling  and  making  giggle,  he  passed  his  days  in  reading 
the  belle-lettre  literature  of  England,  and  such  literature  as 
America  then  possessed,  which  was  not  much,  nor  worth 
dwelling  upon  now.  He  found  his  vocation  in  his  nineteenth 
year,  in  the  beginning  of  December,  1802,  or  it  was  found  for 
him,  by  his  brother  Peter,  who,  a  couple  of  months  before, 
had  started  a  daily  paper  in  New  York,  under  the  title  of  the 
"Morning  Chronicle,"  of  which  he  was  the  editor  and  pro- 
prietor, and  in  which  he  persuaded  his  clever  young  brother 
to  assist  hun.  He  furnished  a  series  of  essays  over  the  sig- 
nature of  "Jonathan  Oldstyle,"  which  betrayed  the  bent  of 
his  mind  and  his  early  reading,  and  which  were  generally 
of  a  humorous  character.  They  were  so  much  superior  to 
the  newspaper  writings  of  the  period  that  they  attracted 
great  attention,  and,  in  spite  of  their  local  and  temporary  in- 
terest, were  copied  into  the  journals  of  other  cities.  Among 
those  who  were  struck  by  their  talent  was  Charles  Brockden 
Brown,  who  was  the  first  American  that  made  literature  a 


r2  Cife  of 

profession,  and  who  had  already  published  four  or  five  novels, 
remarkable  both  for  their  extravagance  and  their  power.  He 
was  a  contributor  to  the  periodicals  of  the  day — such  as  they 
were — of  which  the  best,  perhaps,  was  "The  Monthly  Maga- 
zine and  American  Register,"  of  which  he  was  the  proprietor. 
It  soon  died,  and  was  followed  by  "The  Literary  Magazine 
and  American  Register,"  of  which  he  was  also  the  proprietor, 
and  it  was  in  this  latter  capacity,  rather  than  as  the  first 
American  author,  that  he  visited  Irving,  and  besought  him 
to  aid  him  in  his  new  enterprise.  He  was  not  successful ;  for, 
whatever  may  have  been  his  inclinations,  "Mr.  Jonathan 
Oldstyle"  had  not  yet  decided  upon  being  an  author. 

Irving's  love  of  adventure,  which  had  been  stimulated  by 
the  reading  of  voyages  and  travels,  and  which  would  have 
led  him  to  follow  a  maritime  life,  if  he  could  have  gratified 
his  inclinations,  expended  itself  in  long  rambles  about  the 
rural  neighborhoods  of  the  city,  which  he  knew  by  heart, 
and  in  more  distant  excursions  into  the  country.  He.  spent 
a  holiday  in  "Westchester  County  in  his  fifteenth  year,  and 
explored  the  recesses  of  Sleepy  Hollow;  and,  in  his  seven- 
teenth year,  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson,  the  beauties  of 
which,  as  Bryant  has  pointed  out,  he  was  the  first  to  de- 
scribe. He  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  sight  of  the  High- 
lands, crowned  with  forests,  with  eagles  sailing  and  scream- 
ing around  them,  and  unseen  streams  dashing  down  their 
precipices;  and  was  fairly  bewitched  by  the  Kaatskill  Moun- 
tains. "Never  shall  I  forget,"  he  wrote,  "the  effect  upon 
me  of  the  first  view  of  them  predominating  over  a  wide  ex- 
tent of  country,  part  wild,  woody,  and  rugged,  part  softened 
away  into  all  the  graces  of  cultivation.  As  we  slowly  floated 
along,  I  lay  on  the  deck  and  watched  them  through  a  long 
summer's  day ;  undergoing  a  thousand  mutations  under  the 
magical  effects  of  atmosphere;  sometimes  seeming  to  ap- 
proach, at  other  times  to  recede;  now  almost  melting  into 
hazy  distance,  now  burnished  by  the  setting  sun,  until,  in 
the  evening,  they  printed  themselves  against  the  glowing 
sky  in  the  deep  purple  of  an  Italian  landscape."  In  his 


Cife  of  U/asbii)$toi?  Irvir?$  13 

twentieth  year  he  made  a  visit  to  Johnstown,  the  residence 
of  his  eldest  sister,  which  he  reached  in  a  wagon,  after  a 
voyage  by  sloop  to  Albany.  This  visit  seems  to  have  been 
undertaken  on  account  of  his  health,  for  he  was  troubled 
with  a  constant  pain  in  his  breast,  and  a  harassing  cough  at 
night.  "I  have  been  unwell  almost  all  the  time  I  have  been 
up  here,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend.  "I  am  too  weak  to  take  any 
exercise,  and  too  low-spirited  half  the  time  to  enjoy  com- 
pany." "Was  that  young  Irving,"  asked  Judge  Kent  of 
his  brother-in-law,  "who  slept  in  the  room  next  to  me,  and 
kept  up  such  an  incessant  cough  during  the  night?"  "It 
was."  "He  is  not  long  for  this  world."  This  lugubrious 
judgment  of  the  great  jurist  was  shared  by  the  family  of 
Irving,  who  determined  to  send  him  to  Europe.  The  ex- 
pense was  mainly  borne  by  his  brother  William,  who  told 
him,  speaking  in  behalf  of  his  relatives,  that  one  of  their 
greatest  sources  of  happiness  was  that  fortune  put  it  in  their 
power  to  add  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  one  so  dear  to 
them.  They  accordingly  secured  a  passage  for  him  to  Bor- 
deaux, for  which  he  started  on  the  19th  .of  May,  1804. 
"There's  a  chap,"  said  the  captain,  "who  will  go  overboard 
before  we  get  across."  '* .»'•'•' 

The  first  European  visit  of  an  American  was  a  greater 
event  seventy  years  ago  than  it  is  to-day.  It  was  less  com- 
mon, at  any  rate,  and  was  attended  with  dangers  which  no 
longer  exist.  What  it  was  to  Irving  we  gather  from  his  let- 
ters, which  may  still  be  read  with  pleasure,  though  nothing 
like  the  pleasure  they  afforded  his  friends,  who  were  more 
interested  in  his  itinerary  than  it  is  possible  for  us  to  be.  He 
reached  Bordeaux  after  what  the  sailors  call  "a  lady's  voy- 
age," much  improved  in  health,  and  enough  of  a  sailor  to 
climb  to  the  masthead,  and  go  out  on  the  main  topsail  yard. 
He  remained  at  Bordeaux  about  s^x  weeks,  seeing  what  there 
was  to  see,  and  studying  to  improve  himself  in  the  language. 
From  Bordeaux  he  proceeded  to  Marseilles  by  diligence,  ac- 
companied by  an  eccentric  American  doctor,  who  pretended 
that  Irving  was  an  English  prisoner,  whom  a  young  French 


14  Cife  of  U/a8bii?$tor) 

officer  that  was  with  them  had  in  custody,  much  to  the  re- 
gret of  some  girls  at  Tonneins,  who  pitied  "le  pauvre  gar- 
gon,"  and  his  prospect  of  losing  his  head,  and  supplied  him 
with  a  bottle  of  wine,  for  which  they  would  not  take  any  rec- 
ompense. At  Nismes  he  began  to  have  misgivings  about 
his  passports,  of  which  he  had  two,  neither  accurate,  his  eyes 
being  described  as  blue  in  one  and  gray  in  the  other.  He 
had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with  his  passports,  first  and  last, 
but  he  worried  through  it,  with  considerable  loss  of  temper, 
and,  after  a  detention  at  Nice,  finally  set  sail  in  a  felucca 
for  Genoa.  From  Genoa,  where  he  resided  upward  of  two 
months,  he  started  for  Messina,  falling  in  with  a  privateer, 
or  pirate,  on  the  way,  who  frightened  the  captain  and  crew, 
and  relieved  them  of  about  half  then*  provisions,  besides  some 
of  their  furniture,  and  a  watch  and  some  clothes  out  of  the 
trunks  of  the  passengers.  From  Genoa  he  proceeded  to 
Syracuse,  where  he  explored  the  celebrated  Ear  of  Dionys- 
ius,  and  set  out  with  a  party  for  Catania,  and  thence  to 
Palermo,  where  he  arrived  at  the  latter  end  of  the  Carnival. 
He  reached  Naples  on  March  7,  1805,  and  after  resting  a 
few  days,  made  a  night  ascent  of  Mount  Vesuvius,  where 
he  had  a  tremendous  view  of  the  crater,  that  poured  out  a 
stream  of  red-hot  lava,  the  sulphurous  smoke  of  which  stifled 
him,  so  much  so,  that  but  for  the  shifting  of  the  wind  he 
might  have  shared  the  fate  of  Pliny.  Twenty  days  later 
he  entered  Rome  by  the  Lateran  Gate.  Here  he  met  a  fel- 
low-countryman, in  the  person  of  "Washington  Alston,  who 
was  about  four  years  his  elder,  whose  taste  for  art  had  been 
awakened  at  Newport  by  his  association  with  Malbone,  the 
famous  miniature  painter,  and  who  was  already  more  than  a 
painter  of  promise.  "I  do  not  think,"  Irving  wrote  years 
after,  "that  I  have  ever  been  more  completely  captivated  011 
a  first  acquaintance.  He  was  of  a  light  and  graceful  form, 
with  large,  blue  eyes,  and  black,  silken  hair,  waving  and 
curling  round  a  pale,  expressive  countenance.  Everything 
about  him  bespoke  the  man  of  intellect  and  refinement.  His 
conversation  was  copious,  animated,  and  highly  graphic, 


Cife  of  U/asI?ii7$tOQ  Iruii?<$  15 

warmed  by  genial  sensibility  and  benevolence,  and  enlivened 
by  chaste  and  gentle  humor." 

Irving  and  Alston  fraternized,  and  spent  the  twenty-sec- 
ond birthday  of  the  former  in  seeing  some  of  the  finest  col- 
lections of  paintings  in  Rome,  the  painter  teaching  the  trav- 
eler how  to  visit  them  to  the  most  advantage,  leading  him 
always  to  the  masterpieces,  and  passing  the  others  without 
notice.  They  rambled  in  company  around  the  Eternal  City 
and  its  environs,  and  Irving  contrasted  their  different  pur- 
suits and  prospects,  favoring  as  he  did  so  those  of  Alston, 
who  was  to  reside  amid  the  delightful  scenes  among  which 
they  were,  surrounded  by  famous  works  of  art  and  classic 
and  historic  monuments,  and  by  men  of  congenial  tastes, 
while  he  was  to  return  home  to  the  dry  study  of  the  law,  for 
which  he  had  no  relish,  and,  as  he  feared,  no  talent.  "Why 
might  I  not  remain  here,  and  be  a  painter?"  he  thought, 
and  he  mentioned  the  idea  to  his  friend,  who  caught  at  it 
with  eagerness.  They  would  take  an  apartment  together, 
and  he  would  give  him  all  the  instruction  and  assistance 
in  his  power.  But  it  was  not  to  be ;  their  lots  in  lif  e  were 
differently  cast.  So  Irving  resigned  the  transient,  but  de- 
lightful, prospect  of  becoming  a  painter.  During  his  sojourn 
in  Rome  he  attended  the  conversaziones  of  Torlonia,  the 
banker,  who  treated  him  with  great  distinction,  and,  calling 
him  aside  when  he  came  to  make  his  adieu,  asked  him,  in 
French,  if  he  was  not  a  relative  of  General  Washington? 
He  was  also  introduced  to  the  Baron  de  Humboldt,  Minister 
of  Prussia  to  the  Court  of  Rome,  and  brother  to  the  cele- 
brated traveler  and  savant,  and  to  Madame  de  Stae'l,  who 
astounded  him  by  the  amazing  flow  of  her  conversation,  and 
the  multitude  of  questions  with  which  she  plied  him. 

Irving  started  for  Paris  on  the  llth  of  April,  and  reached 
it  on  the  24th  of  May.  His  stay  in  Paris,  which  extended 
over  four  months,  was  a  round  of  sight-seeing  and  amuse- 
ment. One  night  he  went  to  the  Theatre  Montansier,  where 
the  acting  was  humorous,  but  rather  gross ;  another  night  he 
went  to  the  Imperial  Academy  of  Music,  where  he  saw  the 


16  Cife  of  U/asI?ii)<$too 

opera  of  "Alceste";  a  third  night  he  went  to  the  theater  of 
Jeunes  Artistes,  where  boys  acted  plays;  and  a  fourth  to  the 
theater  of  Port  St.  Martin.  He  made  the  acquaintance  at 
this  time  of  another  American  painter,  Vanderlyn,  a  man  of 
genius,  in  whom  he  was  much  interested,  and  who  made  a 
sketch  of  hun  in  crayons.  His  mental  improvement  was  not 
neglected  in  the  gay  capital,  for  he  bought  a  botanical  dic- 
tionary, and  took  two  months'  tuition  in  French. 

Irving  arrived  in  London  on  the  8th  of  October,  after  a 
tour  through  the  Netherlands.  He  found  lodgings  to  his 
liking  in  Norfolk  Street,  Strand,  not  far  from  the  city,  and 
being  in  the  vicinity  of  the  theaters,  he  devoted  most  of  his 
evenings  to  visiting  them.  Three  great  actors  were  then 
playing — John  Kemble,  Cooke,  and  Mrs.  Siddons,  and  in 
his  correspondence  with  his  brother  William  he  described  the 
impression  they  made  on  him.  Kemble  was  a  very  studied 
actor,  he  thought.  His  performances  were  correct  and  highly 
finished  paintings,  but  much  labored.  He  never  led  the 
spectators  to  forget  him  in  "Othello,"  it  was  Kemble  they 
saw  throughout,  not  the  jealous  Moor.  He  was  cold,  artifi- 
cial, and  unequal,  and  he  wanted  mellowness  in  the  tender 
scenes.  He  was  fine  in  passages  when  he  played  "Jaffier," 
but  great  only  in  Zanga,  whom,  for  the  moment,  he  fancied 
himself.  Cooke  was  next  to  him,  though  rather  confined  in 
his  range.  His  lago  was  admirable;  his  Richard,  he  was 
told,  was  equally  good ;  and  in  Sir  Pertinax  McSycophant 
he  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  But  Mrs.  Siddons — if  he  wrote 
what  he  thought  of  her,  his  praises  would  be  thought  exag- 
gerated. "Her  looks,  her  voice,  her  gestures  delighted  me. 
She  penetrated  in  a  moment  to  my  heart.  She  froze  and 
melted  it  by  turns.  A  glance  of  her  eye,  a  start,  an  ex- 
clamation, thrilled  through  my  very  frame.  The  more  I  see 
her,  the  more  I  admire  her.  I  hardly  breathe  while  she 
is  on  the  stage.  She  works  up  my  feelings  till  I  am  like  a 
mere  child." 

Irving  set  out  from  Gravesend  on  the  18th  of  January, 
1806,  and  reached  New  York  after  a  stormy  passage  of  sixty- 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii7$toi}  Irvii?$  17 

four  days.  He  had  contradicted  the  prophecy  of  the  captain 
with  whom  he  originally  sailed— that  he  would  go  overboard 
before  he  got  across;  and  of  Judge  Kent,  who  declared  he 
was  not  long  for  this  world.  He  returned  in  good  health, 
and  resumed  his  legal  studies,  which  were  advanced  enough 
to  enable  him  to  pass  an  examination  in  the  ensuing  Novem- 
ber, which  ended  in  his  admission  to  the  bar.  He  entered 
the  office  of  his  brother  John,  at  No.  3  Wall  Street,  and 
while  waiting  for  clients  who  never  came,  he  turned  his  at- 
tention to  literature  more  seriously  than  he  had  ever  done 
before.  There  was  more  room  in  it  than  in  the  over-crowded 
profession  of  the  law ;  so  much  room,  indeed,  that  a  young 
man  of  his  talents  might  do  almost  anything  that  he  chose. 
There  was  no  fear  of  competitors,  at  any  rate;  for  author- 
ship, as  a  craft,  had  no  followers,  except  Charles  Brockden 
Brown,  who  was  still  editing  the  "Literary  Magazine,"  and 
perhaps  John  Dennie,  whose  reputation,  such  as  it  was, 
rested  on  his  Lay  Preacher,  and  who  was  editing  the  "Port 
Folio."  The  few  poets  of  which  America  boasted  were  si- 
lent. Trumbull,  the  author  of  "McFingal,"  which  was 
published  the  year  before  Irving's  birth,  was  a  Judge  of  the 
Superior  Court;  D wight,  whose  "Conquest  of  Canaan"  was 
published  three  years  later,  was  merely  the  President  of  Yale 
College;  Barlow,  whose  "Vision  of  Columbus"  was  published 
two  years  later  still,  and  who  had  returned  to  this  country 
after  shining  abroad  as  a  diplomatist,  was  living  in  splendor 
on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  and  brooding  over  that  unread- 
able poem  which  he  expanded  into  the  epic  of  "The  Colum- 
biad";  and  Freneau,  by  all  odds  the  best  of  our  earlier  ver- 
sifiers, who  had  published  a  collection  of  his  effusions  in  1795, 
had  abandoned  the  Muses,  and  was  sailing  a  sloop  between 
Savannah,  Charleston,  and  the  West  Indies.  Pierpont,  who 
was  two  years  younger  than  Irving,  was  a  private  tutor  in 
South  Carolina;  Dana  was  a  student  at  Harvard,  and  Bryant, 
a  youth  of  twelve,  at  Cummington,  was  scribbling  juvenile 
poems,  which  were  being  published  in  a  newspaper  at  North- 
ampton. 


18  Cife  of  U/asI?ii)$toi)  Irvii?$ 

The  library  of  Irving 's  father  was  rich  in  Elizabethan 
writers,  among  whom  Chaucer  and  Spenser  were  his  early 
favorites,  and  it  contained  the  classics  of  the  eighteenth  cent- 
ury, in  verse  and  prose,  not  forgetting  the  "Spectator"  and 
"Tatler"  and  "Rambler,"  and  the  works  of  the  ingenious 
Dr.  Goldsmith.  Everybody  who  read  fiction  was  familiar 
with  the  novels  of  Fielding  and  Smollett,  and  lovers  of  politi- 
cal literature  were  familiar  with  the  speeches  of  Burke  and 
the  letters  of  Junius.  Everybody  read  (or  could  read)  the 
poetical  works  of  Cowper  and  Burns,  Campbell's  "Pleasures 
of  Hope,"  and  Scott's  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  and 
whatever  else  in  the  shape  of  verse  American  publishers 
thought  it  worth  their  while  to  reprint  for  them ;  for  then, 
as  now,  they  were  willing  to  enlighten  their  countrymen  at 
the  expense  of  British  authors. 

Equipped  with  a  liberal  education,  which  he  had  imbibed 
from  English  literature,  and  with  the  practice  which  he  had 
gained  in  writing  for  the  paper  of  his  brother  Peter,  which 
was  discontinued  shortly  before  his  return  to  America,  Irv- 
ing cast  about  for  a  field  of  authorship  in  which  he  might 
safely  venture.  His  inclination  was  toward  the  writing  of 
essays,  in  which  he  had  had  considerable  experience,  and  the 
taste  of  his  friend  Paulding,  who  was  still  living  under  the 
roof  of  his  brother  William,  was  in  the  same  direction.  They 
put  their  heads  together,  and  sketched  out  a  plan  of  publica- 
tion, in  which  they  might  have  their  fling  at  men  and  things, 
and  which  should  come  out  in  numbers  whenever  it  suited 
their  pleasure  and  convenience.  The  title  that  they  selected 
was  "Salmagundi,"  which  is  derived  from  the  French  word 
salmigondis,  which  is  made  up  of  two  Latin  words,  salgama 
and  condita,  signifying  preserved  pickles.  Johnson  defines 
the  word  as  "a  mixture  of  chopped  meat  and  pickled  herring 
with  oil,  vinegar,  pepper,  and  onions,"  which,  no  doubt,  is  an 
appetizing  dish  when  one  has  become  accustomed  to  it.  Irv- 
ing and  Paulding  were  joined  by  William  Irving,  and  the 
three  resolved  themselves  into  what  the  Spaniards  call  a 
junta;  i.e.,  Launcelot  Langstaff,  Anthony  Evergreen,  and 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii)$toi?  Irving  19 

William  Wizard.  The  first  number  of  "Salmagundi"  was 
issued  on  January  24,  1807,  the  last  on  January  25,  1808, 
the  twenty  numbers  of  which  it  consisted  covering  just  the 
true-love  epoch  of  the  old  ballads,  "A  twelvemonth  and  a 
day."  The  time,  which  was  ripe  for  almost  anything  in  the 
shape  of  American  literature,  was  so  propitious  for  a  periodi- 
cal of  this  kind  that  the  success  of  the  first  number  was  de- 
cisive. There  was  no  home  literature  then  to  speak  of,  as  I 
have  already  hinted,  and  the  city  in  which  this  bright  vent- 
ure appeared  was  a  mere  town  compared  with  the  Babel  of 
to-day,  scarcely  numbering  eighty  thousand  inhabitants.  It  Y\ 
was  not  difficult  to  make  a  sensation  in  a  place  of  that  size, 
in  a  barren  literary  period,  and  "Salmagundi"  certainly  made 
a  great  one.  Everybody  talked  about  it,  and  wondered  who 
its  writers  could  be,  and  nobody  was  much  the  wiser  for  his 
wonderment,  for  the  secret  was  well  kept.  It  would  be  idle 
now  to  attempt  to  distinguish  the  share  of  the  different  writ- 
ers ;  for,  as  Paulding  wrote  afterward,  in  the  uniform  edition 
of  his  works,  in  which  it  was  included,  "The  thoughts  of  the 
authors  were  often  so  mingled  together  in  these  essays,  and 
they  were  so  literally  joint  productions,  that  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult as  well  as  useless  to  assign  each  his  exact  share." 

Authors  there  were  none  in  New  York,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  authors  of  "Salmagundi,"  though  there  was  no 
lack  of  writers,  so  called,  among  whom  figured  Samuel 
Latham  Mitchill,  practicer  in  physic  (like  Johnson's  friend 
Levett),  lawyer  and  retired  Indian  commissioner,  member  of 
Congress,  and  of  various  learned  societies,  and  editor  of  the 
"Medical  Repository."  This  gentleman,  who  wrote  largely, 
and  was  a  butt  to  the  wits  of  the  day,  had  lately  published 
a  "Picture  of  New  York,"  which,  if  not  funny  itself,  was  a 
source  of  fun  to  others,  particularly  to  Irving  and  his  brother 
Peter,  who  determined  to  burlesque  it.  With  this  object  in 
view  they  made  many  notes,  and  not  to  be  behind  its  erudite 
author,  who  began  his  work  with  an  account  of  the  aborigi- 
nes, they  began  theirs  with  the  creation  of  the  world.  Started 
shortly  after  the  publication  of  "Salmagundi,"  it  proceeded 


20  Cifc  of  U/asl?iij$toi} 

slowly  and  with  many  interruptions  until  the  following  Janu- 
ary, when  Peter  Irving  departed  for  Liverpool  on  urgent 
business.  Left  to  himself,  his  forsaken  collaborateur  changed 
the  whole  plan  of  the  work,  condensing  the  great  mass  of 
notes  which  they  had  accumulated  into  five  introductory 
chapters,  and  commencing  at  a  considerably  later  period,  the 
new  Genesis  being  the  dynasty  of  the  Dutch  in  New  York. 
Laid  aside  for  a  time,  he  resumed  it  in  the  summer,  at  a 
country  house  at  Ravenswood,  near  Hellgate,  whither  he 
had  retired  in  order  to  prepare  it  for  the  press.  A  stupen- 
dous hoax,  it  was  launched  with  a  series  of  small  hoaxes,  the 
first  of  which  appeared  in  the  "Evening  Post"  of  October 
25,  1809,  hi  the  shape  of  a  paragraph  narrating  the  disap- 
pearance from  his  lodging  of  a  small  elderly  gentleman,  by 
the  name  of  Knickerbocker.  He  was  stated  to  be  dressed  in 
an  old  black  coat  and  a  cocked  hat,  and  it  was  intimated  that 
there  were  some  reasons  for  believing  that  he  was  not  in  his 
right  mind.  Great  anxiety  was  felt,  and  any  information 
concerning  him  would  be  thankfully  received  at  the  Colum- 
bian Hotel,  Mulberry  Street,  or  at  the  office  of  the  paper. 
This  feeler  was  followed  hi  a  week  or  two  by  a  communica- 
tion from  "A  Traveler,"  who  professed  to  have  seen  him 
some  weeks  before  by  the  side  of  the  road,  a  little  above 
Kingsbridge.  "He  had  in  his  hands  a  small  bundle,  tied  in 
a  red  bandana  handkerchief;  he  appeared  to  be  traveling 
northward,  and  was  very  much  fatigued  and  exhausted." 
Ten  days  later  (November  6),  Mr.  Seth  Handaside,  landlord 
of  the  Independent  Columbian  Hotel,  inserted  a  card  in  the 
same  paper,  in  which  he  declared  that  there  had  been  found 
in  the  room  of  the  missing  man,  Mr.  Diedrich  Knickerbocker, 
a  curious  kind  of  a  written  book,  in  his  own  handwriting; 
and  he  wished  the  editor  to  notify  him,  if  he  was  alive,  that 
if  he  did  not  return  and  pay  off  his  bill  for  board,  he  would 
have  to  dispose  of  his  book  to  satisfy  him  for  the  same.  The 
bait  took,  so  much  so  that  one  of  the  city  authorities  actually 
waited  upon  Irving's  brother,  John,  and  consulted  him  on 
the  propriety  of  offering  a  reward  for  the  mythical  Diedrich! 


Cife  of  U/asl?ip<$toi)  Irvlpq  21 

To  these  "puffs  preliminary"  was  added  the  precaution 
of  having  the  manuscript  set  up  in  Philadelphia,  which  less- 
ened the  danger  of  the  real  character  of  the  work  being  dis- 
covered before  its  appearance. 

The  "History  of  New  York,"  which  was  published  in  this 
city  on  the  6th  of  December,  1809,  was  a  success  in  more^- 
ways  than  one.     Its  whim  and  satire  amused  the  lovers  of  j 
wit  and  humor,  and  its  irreverence  toward  the  early  Dutch  I 
settlers  of  the  State  annoyed  and  angered  their  descendants.^ 
Between  these  two  classes  of  readers  it  was  much  talked 
about,  and  largely  circulated.     The  "Monthly  Anthology.," 
the  forerunner  of  the  "North  American  Review,"  pronounced 
it  the  wittiest  book  our  press  had  ever  produced;  and  Scott, 
to  whom  a  copy  of  the  second  edition  was  sent  by  Irving's 
friend,  Henry  Brevort,  and  upon  whom,  from  his  ignorance 
of  American  parties  and  politics,  much  of  its  concealed  satire 
was  lost,  owned  that,  looking  at  its  simple  and  obvious  mean- 
ing only,  he  had  never  read  anything  so  closely  resembling 
the  style  of  Dean  Swift  as  the  annals  of  Diedrich  Knicker- 
bocker.    Bryant,  who  was  a  youth  at  college  when  it  came 
out,  committed  a  portion  of  it  to  memory  to  repeat  as  a  dec- 
lamation before  his  class,  but  was  so  overcome  with  laughter 
when  he  appeared  on  the  floor  that  he  was  unable  to  proceed, 
and  drew  upon  himself  the  rebuke  of  his  tutor.     Fifty  years 
later,  when  he  delivered  a  discourse  on  the  life,  character, 
and   genius    of    Irving,  his   admiration   had   not   subsided. 
"When  I  compare  it  with  other  works  of  wit  and  humor 
of  a  similar  length,"  he  said,  "I  find  that,  unlike  most  of 
them,  it  carries  the  reader  to  the  conclusion  without  weari- 
ness or  satiety,  so  unsought,  spontaneous,  self -suggested  are 
the  wit  and  the  humor.     The  author  makes  us  laugh,  be-} 
cause  he  can  no  more  help  it  than  we  can  help  laughing. "j 
He  refers  to  the  opinion  of  Scott,  already  quoted,  and  re- 
marks  that  the  rich  vein  of  Irving  was  of  a  quality  quite  dis-  >. 
tinct  from  the  dry  drollery  of  Swift,  and  he  detects  the  influ-  \ 
ence  of  his  reading.     "I  find  in  this  work  more  traces  than 
in  his  other  writings,  of  what  Irving  owed  to  the  earlier 


22  Cife  of  U/astyi^top 

authors  in  our  language.     TheN  quaint  poetic  coloring,  and 
often  the  phraseology,  betray  the  disciple  of  Chaucer  and 
Spenser.     We  are  conscious  of  a  flavor  of  the  olden  time,  as 
u  of  a  racy  wine  of  some  rich  vintage — 

"  'Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth.' 

I  will  not  say  that  there  are  no  passages  in  this  work  which 
are  not  worthy  of  their  context ;   that  we  do  not  sometimes 
meet  with  phraseology  which  we  could  wish  changed ;  that 
the  wit  does  not  sometimes  run'  wild,  and  drop  here  and  there 
a  jest  which  we  could  willingly  spare.     We  forgive,  we  over- 
look, we  forget  all  this  as  we  read,  in  consideration  of  the 
entertainment  we  have  enjoyed,  and  of  that  which  beckons 
C  us  forward  in  the  next  page./  Of  all  mock-heroic  works, 
I  Knickerbocker's  'History  of  New  York'  is  the  gayest,  the 
/  airiest,  and  the  least  tiresome." 

Irving's  next  literary  labor  was  the  editorship  of  a  monthly 
publication,  which  had  been  established  in  Philadelphia,  and 
which,  from  its  title,  "Select  Reviews,"  would  appear  to 
have  been  of  an  eclectic  character.  Its  name  was  changed 
to  the  "  Analectic  Magazine"  during  his  management,  which 
extended  through  the  years  1813  and  1814,  and  it  bade  fair 
to  be  successful,  until  its  proprietor  was  ruined  by  the  failure 
of  the  New  York  publishers  of  "Salmagundi."  Irving's 
contributions  to  this  dead  and  gone  old  periodical  consisted 
of  critical  notices  of  new  works  by  English  and  American 
authors;  among  others  one  by  his  friend  Paulding,  who  had 
dropped  into  poetry  with  a  "Lay  of  the  Scottish  Fiddle";  of 
a  series  of  biographies  of  the  naval  heroes  of  our  second  war 
with  England;  and  of  a  revised  and  enlarged  memoir  of  the 
poet  Campbell,  which  he  had  written  at  the  request  of  his 
brother  a  year  or  two  before,  to  accompany  an  American  edi- 
tion of  his  poetical  works.  Irving  signed  off  what  was  owing 
to  him,  and  peace  with  England  being  declared  shortly  after, 
he  departed  for  Europe  for  the  second  time  on  the  25th  of 
May,  1815.  He  was  a  partner  in  a  mercantile  house,  which 
his  brothers  Peter  and  Ebenezer  had  started  in  Liverpool, 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii^tor? 

and  it  was  quite  as  much  to  assist  the  former,  who  was  in  ill- 
health,  as  to  divert  himself,  that  he  undertook  the  journey. 
He  remained  at  Liverpool  for  some  time,  examining  the 
affairs  of  "P.  &  E.  Irving  &  Co.,"  which  had  fallen  into 
confusion  on  account  of  the  sickness  of  his  brother  and  the 
death  of  his  principal  clerk,  mastering  details,  and  learning 
book-keeping,  in  order  to  straighten  out  their  books.  The 
business  of  the  Irving  brothers  ended  in  failure,  owing  to  a 
variety  of  causes,  which  there  is  no  occasion  to  specify  now, 
and  the  literary  member  of  the  firm  turned  his  attention 
again  to  the  only  business  for  which  he  was  really  fitted. 
He  had  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  Alston,  who  was  now 
residing  in  London,  and  had  met  Leslie,  the  artist,  both  of 
whom  were  making  designs  for  a  new  edition  of  his  "History 
of  New  York." 

The  summer  of  1817  found  Irving  in  London,  whence  he 
paid  a  visit  to  Campbell,  at  Sydenham,  who  was  simmering 
over  his  "Specimens  of  the  English  Poets,"  and  where  he 
dined  with  Murray,  the  bookseller,  who  showed  him  a  long 
letter  from  Byron,  who  was  in  Italy,  and  was  engaged  on 
the  fourth  canto  of  "Childe  Harold,"  and  who  had  told  him 
"that  he  was  much  happier  after  breaking  with  Lady  Byron 
—he  hated  this  still,  quiet  life."  From  London  he  proceeded 
to  Edinburgh,  whence  he  walked  out  to  a  mansion,  which  had 
been  taken  by  Jeffrey,  with  whom  he  dined,  after  which  he 
rattled  off  by  the  mail  coach  to  Selkirk,  and  by  chaise  to  Mel- 
rose.  On  his  way  to  the  latter  place  he  stopped  at  the  gate 
at  Abbotsford,  and  sent  in  his  letter  of  introduction  to  Scott. 
The  glorious  old  minstrel  himself  came  hobbling  to  the  gate, 
and  took  him  by  the  hand  in  a  way  that  .made  him  feel  as  if 
they  were  old  friends ;  in  a  moment  he  was  seated  at  his  hos- 
pitable board  among  his  charming  family.  He  passed  two 
days  at  Abbotsford,  rambling  about  the  hills  with  his  host, 
and  visiting  the  haunts  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  other 
spots  rendered  classic  by  border  tale  and  song,  in  a  kind  of 
dream.  He  was  delighted  with  the  character  and  manners 
of  the  great  man,  and  it  was  a  constant  source  of  pleasure 


24  Cffe  of  U/asl?ir)<$tOQ 

to  htm  to  watch  his  deportment  toward  his  family,  his  neigh- 
bors, his  domestics,  his  very  dogs  and  cats.  "It  is  a  perfect 
picture  to  see  Scott  and  his  household  assembled  of  an  even- 
ing—the dogs  stretched  before  the  fire,  the  cat  perched  on 
a  chair,  Mrs.  Scott  and  the  girls  sewing,  and  Scott  eithei 
reading  out  of  some  old  romance,  or  telling  border  stories. 
Our  amusements  were  occasionally  diversified  by  a  border 
song  from  Sophia,  who  is  as  well  versed  in  border  minstrelsy 
as  her  father."  This  pilgrimage  to  Abbotsford,  which  is  de- 
scribed at  length  in  the  fifth  volume  of  Lockhart's  "Life  of 
Scott,"  was  brought  about  by  Campbell.  "When  you  see 
Tom  Campbell,"  Scott  wrote  to  one  of  his  friends,  "tell  him, 
with  my  best  love,  that  I  have  to  thank  him  for  making  me 
known  to  Mr.  Washington  Irving,  who  is  one  of  the  best  and 
pleasantest  acquaintances  I  have  made  this  many  a  day." 

The  house  of  the  Irving  brothers  succeeded  so  ill  in  Eng- 
land that  the  two  resident  partners,  Peter  and  Washington, 
finally  made  up  their  minds  to  go  into  bankruptcy.  The 
necessary  proceedings  occupied  some  months,  during  which 
time  the  latter  shut  himself  up  from  society,  and  studied 
German  day  and  night,  partly  in  the  hope  that  it  would  be 
of  some  service  to  him,  and  partly  to  keep  off  uncomfortable 
thoughts.  His  brother  William,  who  was  in  Congress,  had 
exerted  himself  to  have  him  made  Secretary  of  Legation  at 
the  Court  of  St.  James,  but  in  vain;  and  his  friend,  Com- 
modore Decatur,  had  kept  a  place  for  him  in  the  Navy 
Board,  the  salary  of  which  would  enable  him  to  live  in 
Washington  like  a  prince.  He  concluded  not  to  accept  it, 
however,  greatly  to  the  chagrin  of  his  brothers,  but  to  re- 
main abroad,  and  battle  with  fortune  on  his  own  account. 
So  he  went  up  to  London  again  in  the  summer  of  1818,  to 
see  if  he  could  not  live  by  his  pen. 

Nearly  nine  years  had  elapsed  since  the  publication  of  the 
"History  of  New  York,"  and  with  the  exception  of  his  re- 
views and  biographies  in  the  "  Analectic  Magazine,"  he  had 
written  nothing.  His  mercantile  connection  with  his  broth- 
ers had  proved  disastrous  to  them  as  well  as  to  himself,  and 


Cife  of  Ufasf?ii7$toi)  Irvii)$  25 


he  was  now  dependent  on  his  own  exertions.  If  there  is 
anything  in  experience  that  fits  one  for  literature,  he  was 
better  fitted  for  it  than  ever  before.  He  had  passed  through 
troubles  which  had  deepened  his  knowledge  of  life,  having 
lost  his  father,  who  died  shortly  before  the  completion  of 
"Salmagundi,"  and  his  mother,  who  died  about  ten  years 
later,  and  whose  death  was  still  fresh  in  his  memory.  Be- 
tween these  two  sorrows  came  the  tragedy  which  darkened 
his  young  manhood,  and  was  never  forgotten  —  the  death  of 
Matilda  Hoffman,  the  young  lady  to  whom  he  was  attached, 
who  closed  her  brief  existence  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  while 
he  was  composing  the  amusing  annals  of  Mr.  Diedrich  Knick- 
erbocker. He  was  a  bold  American  who  would  dare  to  at- 
tempt at  that  time  to  live  by  authorship  in  his  own  country, 
which  had  known  but  one  professional  author,  Charles  Brock- 
den  Brown,  who  had  died  about  eight  years  before,  at  the 
early  age  of  thirty-nine  ;  but  he  was  a  bolder  American  who 
would  dare  to  attempt  the  same  hazardous  feat  in  England. 
Such  a  man  was  Irving,  who  settled  down  in  London  in  his 
thirty-sixth  year,  to  see  if  he  could  earn  his  living  by  his 
pen.  His  capital  was  the  practice  he  already  possessed,  and 
some  unfinished  sketches,  upon  which  he  had  been  engaged, 
precisely  when,  or  where,  we  are  not  told.  He  set  to  work 
on  these  sketches,  with  the  intention  of  issuing  them  in  num- 
bers as  a  periodical  publication,  and  when  he  had  finished 
enough  to  make  the  first  number  he  dispatched  the  manu- 
script across  the  Atlantic  to  his  brother  Ebenezer,  in  Febru- 
ary, 1819.  It  was  put  to  press  under  the  title  "The  Sketch- 
Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon,"  and  published  in  May,  simultane- 
ously in  New  York,  Boston,  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore.  It 
contained  six  papers,  or  sketches,  of  which  the  perennial  Rip 
Van  Winkle  soon  became  a  general  favorite.  There  was  an 
immediate  demand  for  "The  Sketch-  Book"  ;  for,  as  one  of 
Irving's  critics  observed,  the  honor  of  our  national  literature 
was  so  associated  with  his  name  that  the  pride  as  well  as  the 
better  feelings  of  his  countrymen  were  interested  in  accumu- 
lating the  gifts  of  his  genius.  He  was  congratulated  on  re- 
*  *  *2  VOL.  I. 


26  Cife  of  U/ast?ir)<$toi} 

suming  the  pen,  in  the  "Analectic,"  by  his  friend  Gulian  C. 
Verplanck  (who,  by  the  way,  had  not  taken  kindly  to  his 
Knickerbocker),  who  saw  in  every  page  his  rich,  and  some- 
times extravagant  humor,  his  gay  and  graceful  fancy,  his 
peculiar  choice  and  felicity  of  original  expression,  as  well  as 
the  pure  and  fine  moral  f eeling  which  imperceptibly  pervaded 
every  thought  and  image.  The  second  number,  which  was 
finished  before  the  publication  of  the  first,  was  enriched  by 
the  exquisite  paper  on  Rural  Life  in  England,  and  the  pa- 
thetic story  of  The  Broken  Heart.  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Dana 
wrote  of  the  former,  in  the  "North  American  Review,"  that 
it  left  its  readers  as  restored  and  cheerful  as  if  they  had  been 
passing  an  hour  or  two  in  the  very  fields  and  woods  them- 
selves; and  that  his  scenery  was  so  true,  so  full  of  little  beau- 
tiful particulars,  and  so  varied,  and  yet  so  connected  in  char- 
acter, that  the  distant  was  brought  nigh,  and  the  whole  was 
seen  and  felt  like  a  delightful  reality.  A  copy  of  this  num- 
ber was  placed  by  one  of  Irving's  friends  in  the  hands  of 
William  Godwin,  the  famous  author  of  "Caleb  Williams," 
who  found  everywhere  in  it  the  marks  of  a  mind  of  the  ut- 
most elegance  and  refinement  (a  thing,  you  know,  that  he 
was  not  exactly  prepared  to  look  for  in  an  American),  and 
he  was  pleased  to  say  that  he  scarcely  knew  an  Englishman 
who  could  have  written  it.  Another  Englishman  was  of  the 
same  gracious  opinion  as  this  illustrious  novelist — Mr.  Wil- 
liam Jerdan,  the  editor  of  the  "London  Literary  Gazette," 
who  began  to  reprint  the  first  number  of  "The  Sketch-Book" 
in  his  periodical,  which  was  somehow  regarded  as  an  author- 
ity in  literature.  A  copy  of  the  third  number,  which  was 
published  in  America  in  September,  reached  England,  and 
came  into  the  possession  of  a  London  publisher,  who  was 
considering  the  propriety  of  bringing  out  the  whole  work. 
This  determined  Irving  to  revise  the  numbers  that  he  had 
already  published,  that  they  might,  at  least,  come  before  the 
English  public  correctly,  and  he  accordingly  took  them  to 
Murray,  with  whom  he  left  them  for  examination,  stating 
that  he  had  materials  on  hand  for  a  second  volume.  The 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii)<$toi)  Irvii?$  27 

great  man  declined  to  engage  in  their  publication,  because 
he  did  not  see  "that  scope  in  the  nature  of  iir  to  make  satis- 
factory accounts"  between  them;  but  he  offered  to  do  what 
he  could  to  promote  their  circulation,  and  was  ready  to  at- 
tend to  any  future  plan  of  his.  Irving  then  bethought  him- 
self of  Scott,  to  whom  he  sent  the  printed  numbers,  with  a 
letter,  in  which  he  observed  that  a  reverse  had  taken  place 
in  his  affairs  since  he  had  the  pleasure-  of  enjoying  his  hos- 
pitality, which  made  the  exercise  of  his  pen  important  to 
him.  He  soon  received  a  reply  from  Scott,  who  spoke  very, 
highly  of  his  talents,  and  offered  him  the  editorship  of  an 
Auti- Jacobin  periodical,  which  had  been  projected  at  Edin- 
burgh, the  salary  of  which  would  be  five  hundred  pounds  a 
year  certain,  with  the  reasonable  prospect ^f  further  advan- 
tages. When  the  parcel  reached  him,  as  it  did  at  Edinburgh, 
he  added,  in  a  postscript,  "1  am  just  here,  and  have  glanced 
over  the  'Sketch-Book';  it  is  positively  beautiful,  and  in- 
creases my  desire  to  crimp  you  if  possible."  Irving  imme- 
diately declined  the  editorship  proposed  to  him,  feeling  pecul- 
iarly unfitted  for  the  post,  and  being  as  useless  for  regular 
service  as  one  of  his  country  Indians  or  a  Don  Cossack. 
Having  by  this  time  concluded  to  .print  the  book  at  his  own 
risk,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  publisher,  who  was 
unlucky  enough  to  fail  just  as  it  was.  getting  into  fair  circu- 
lation. Scott  came  up  to  London  at  this  juncture,  for  the 
purpose  of  receiving  his  baronetcy,  and  he  called  upon  Mur- 
ray, who  now  saw  "that  scope  in  the  nature"  of  the  "Sketch- 
Book"  which  it  had  lacked  before,  and  who  printed  an  edi- 
tion of  the  first  volume,  and  put  the  second  volume  to  press, 
and  so  became  Irving's  publisher. 

The  "Sketch-Book"  put  four  hundred  pounds  in  the  pocket 
of  Irving,  and  made  him  famous.  Jeffrey  wrote  of  it  in  the 
"Edinburgh  Review"  that  he  had  seldom  seen  a  work  that 
gave  him  a  more  pleasing  impression  of  the  writer's  char- 
acter, or  a  more  favorable  one  of  his  judgment  and  taste ; 
Lockhart  declared  in  "Blackwood"  that  "Mr.  Washington 
Irving  is  one  of  our  first  favorites  among  the  English  writers 


28  Cife  of  U/asl?ii)<$toi7 

of  this  age,  and  he  is  not  a  bit  the  less  so  for  being  born  in 
America";  and  Mrs.  Siddons  gave  it  the  seal  of  her  author- 
ity, and  intimidated  Irving,  when  he  was  introduced  to  her, 
by  saying,  in  her  most  tragic  way,  "You've  made  me  weep." 
.  Byron,  who  read  all  the  new  works  of  the  time  with  avidity, 
wrote  to  his  and  Irving's  publisher,  Murray,  "Crayon  is  very 
good";  and  shortly  before  his  death  waxed  eloquent  in  his 
praise  to  a  young  American  who  had  called  upon  him,  and 
who,  at  his  request,  had  brought  him  a  copy  of  the  "Sketch- 
Book."  "I  handed  it  to  him,  when,  seizing  it  with  enthu- 
siasm, he  turned  to  the  'Broken  Heart.'  'That,'  said  he,  'is 
one  of  the  finest  things  ever  written  on  earth,  and  I  want  to 
hear  an  American  read  it.  But  stay — do  you  know  Irving?' 
I  replied  that. I  had  never  seen  him.  'God  bless  him!'  ex- 
claimed Byron:  'He  is  a  genius;  and  he  has  something  bet- 
ter than  genius — a  heart.  I  wish  I  could  see  him,  but  I  fear 
I  never  shall.  Well,  read  the  "Broken  Heart" — yes,  the 
"Broken  Heart."  What  a  word!'  In  closing  the  first  para- 
graph, I  said,  'Shall  I  confess  it?  I  do  believe  in  broken 
hearts.'  'Yes,'  exclaimed  Byron,  'and  so  do  I,  and  so  does 
everybody  but  philosophers  and  fools!'  While  I  was  read- 
ing one  of  the  most  touching  portions  of  that  mournful  piece, 
I  observed  that  Byron  wept.  He  turned  his  eyes  upon  me, 
and  said,  'You  see  me  weep,  sir.  Irving  himself  never  wrote 
that  story  without  weeping ;  nor  can  I  hear  it  without  tears. 
I  have  not  wept  much  in  this  world,  for  trouble  never  brings 
tears  to  my  eyes,  but  I  always  have  tears  for  the  "Broken 
Heart."  He  concluded  by  praising  the  verses  of  Moore  at 
the  end  of  the  story,  and  asking  if  there  were  many  such 
men  as  Irving  in  America?  'God  don't  send  many  such 
spirits  into  this  world.'  ': 

The  lives  of  authors  are  not  often  interesting,  apart  from 
the  light  which  they  shed  upon  their  writings,  and  the  life  of 
Irving  was  not,  I  think,  an  exception  to  the  rule.  What  it 
was  hitherto  we  have  seen,  and  what  it  was  hereafter  I  shall 
show,  though  not  in  its  details,  which  were  neither  striking 
nor  important.  Five  years  had  now  elapsed  since  he  left 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii?$toi}  Iruip$  29 

America,  and  twelve  more  years  were  to  elapse  before  lie  re- 
turned to  it.  He  had  published  his  third  book,  and  had  made 
a  name  for  himself  in  England;  in  other  words,  he  had  found 
his  true  vocation,  and  it  would  be  his  own  fault  if  he  did  not 
pursue  it  with  honor  and  profit.  The  summer  of  1820  found 
him  in  Paris  with  his  brother  Peter,  and  before  the  close  of 
the  year  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Moore,  the  poet, 
who  was  sporting  in  exile  in  France,  while  his  friends  were 
trying  to  settle  a  claim  which  the  English  Government  had 
against  him,  on  account  of  the  defalcation  of  the  deputy  who 
had  filled,  in  his  place,the  office  of  Registrar  of  the  Admiralty 
Court  of  Bermuda,  to  which  he  had  been  appointed  about 
seventeen  years  before.  Moore  jotted  down  in  his  Diary 
that  they  met  at  the  table  d'hote,  at  Meurice's  (the  most  ex- 
pensive hotel  in  Paris),  and  that  the  successful  author  was 
"a  good-looking  and  intelligent-mannered  man."  Seven 
days  later  they  met  at  Moore's  cottage  in  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  scarcely  a  day  passed  without  their  seeing  each 
other.  Moore  was  trying  to  work,  now  on  his  "Life  of  Sheri- 
dan," and  now  on  an  Egyptian  romance,  but  it  was  the 
merest  pretense,  as  his  Diary  bears  witness ;  for  he  notes,  in 
one  entry,  that  he  had  been  no  less  than  five  weeks  in  writ- 
ing one  hundred  and  ninety -two  lines  of  verse ;  and  in  an- 
other, when  he  thought  he  had  been  more  industrious,  that 
he  had  written  nearly  fifty  lines  in  a  week.  The  fertility  of 
Irving,  who  wrote  with  ease,  when  he  could  write  at  all,  as- 
tonished him.  "Irving  called  near  dinner  time,"  he  wrote 
on  March  19,  1821;  "asked  him  to  stay  and  share  our  roast 
chicken  with  us,  which  he  did.  He  has  been  hard  at  work 
writing  lately ;  in  the  course  of  ten  days  he  has  written  about 
one  hundred  and  thirty  pages  of  the  size  of  those  in  the  'Sketch- 
Book'  ;  this  is  amazing  rapidity." 

Another  writer  was  in  exile  in  France  at  this  time,  a  fel- 
low townsman  of  Irving,  John  Howard  Payne,  who  had 
taken  the  critics  of  New  York  by  storm  when  he  played 
Young  Norval  at  the  Park  Theater;  who  had  gone  to  Eng- 
land about  two  years  before  Irving,  where  he  became  a  dra- 


30  Cife  of  U7a8bir?<$toi) 

matic  author,  with  some  success,  and  a  manager,  with  none 
at  all;  and  who  is  now  chiefly  remembered  by  the  song  of 
"Home,  Sweet  Home."  London  growing  too  small  for  him, 
he  escaped  to  Paris,  where  Irving  breakfasted  with  him,  after 
which  they  paid  a  visit  to  Talma  together. 

A  whim  for  traveling,  which  frequently  seized  him,  sent 
Irving  back  to  London  in  the  summer  of  1821,  with  no  defi- 
nite object  in  view,  unless  it  was  to  see  his  friends,  and  the 
approaching  coronation  of  George  the  Fourth.  He  was  fortu- 
nate enough  to  witness  the  procession  from  a  stand  on  the 
outside  of  Westminster  Abbey,  and  to  meet  with  Scott,  who 
told  him  that  he  should  have  seen  it  from  within  the  Abbey, 
which  he  might  easily  have  done,  as  his  name  would  have 
got  him  in  anywhere.  He  brought  over  with  him  a  petite 
comedy  of  Payne's,  with  the  ominous  title  of  "The  Bor- 
rower," and  made  a  fruitless  attempt  to  have  it  produced  on 
the  stage.  He  also  brought  over  the  manuscript  of  a  new 
book,  his  speed  in  writing  which  had  so  amazed  Moore,  and 
worked  upon  it  when  he  was  in  the  humor.  When  it  was 
finished,  which  was  not  until  the  following  winter,  he  was 
waited  upon  by  Colburn,  the  publisher,  with  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction from  Campbell,  and  an  offer  of  a  thousand  guineas. 
He  was  not  inclined  to  leave  Murray,  who  had  treated  him 
very  handsomely,  and  was  anxious  to  publish  another  book 
for  him.  Irving  named  the  price  he  wished — fifteen  hundred 
guineas — which  rather  staggered  the  prince  of  booksellers. 
"If  you  had  said  a  thousand  guineas,"  he  began.  "You 
shall  have  it  for  a  thousand  guineas,"  replied  Irving,  and 
the  bargain  was  completed. 

Concerning  Irving's  fourth  book,  "Bracebridge  Hall," 
which  was  published  in  England  and  America  in  May,  1832, 
critical  opinions  differed.  The  "North  American  Review" 
for  July,  speaking  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Edward  Everett,  its 
editor,  had  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  it  equal  to  anything 
which  the  then  age  of  English  literature  had  produced  in  the 
department  of  essay- writing,  and  praised  it  for  its  admirable 
sketches  of  life  and  manners,  highly  curious  in  themselves, 


Cife  of  U/a8bJi)<$toi?  Iruipq  31 

and  rendered  almost  important  by  the  good-natured  mock 
gravity,  the  ironical  reverence,  and  lively  wit  with  which 
they  were  described.  Jeffrey  recognized  the  singular  sweet- 
ness of  the  composition,  and  the  mildness  of  the  sentiments, 
but  thought  the  rhythm  and  melody  of  the  sentences  exces- 
sive, in  that  they  wore  an  air  of  mannerism,  and  created  an 
impression  of  the  labor  that  mttst  have  been  bestowed  upon 
what  was  but  a  secondary  attribute  of  good  writing. 

Wearied  by  his  London  life,  Irving  started  on  a  tour  on 
the  Continent,  which  lasted  about  a  month,  and  which  finally 
brought  up  at  Paris.  He  was  not  in  trim  for  composition 
when  he  settled  down  again,  but  was  haunted  by  the  dread 
of  future  failure,  a  kind  of  nervous  horror  which  frequently 
overpowered  him.  His  poetic  friend,  Moere,  had  returned  to 
England,  where  he  had  been  delivered  of  his  "Loves  of  the 
Angels,"  but  his  dramatic  friend,  Payne,  was  still  an  exile 
in  Paris,  and  was  the  tenant  of  two  residences,  one  of  which, 
in  the  Rue  Richelieu,  he  rented  to  Irving.  He  succeeded  in 
persuading  Irving  to  join  him  in  his  dramatic  undertakings, 
one  of  which,  already  far  advanced,  was  "La  Jeunesse  de 
Richelieu,"  a  French  play,  which  had  been  acted  about 
thirty  years  before.  They  were  to  divide  the  profits,  if  there 
were  any,  and  Irving's  share  in  the  projected  manufactures 
was  to  be  kept  secret.  They  must  have  worked  with  great 
rapidity,  for  in  addition  to  the  play  just  mentioned  they  com- 
pleted a  translation  of  another,  entitled  "Azendai,"  which 
was  intended  to  be  set  to  music;  besides  two  others,  "Belles 
and  Bailiffs,"  and  "Married  and  Single,'"  not  forgetting 
"Abul  Hassan,"  a  German  opera,  which  Irving  had  done 
into  English  at  Dresden.  Laden  with  these  productions, 
Payne  set  off  privately  for  London,  from  which  he  was  de* 
barred  by  his  creditors,  and  put  himself  in  communication 
with  Charles  Kemble.  While  he  was  undergoing  the  delay 
incident  to  acceptance  or  rejection,  Irving  transmitted  to  him 
the  manuscript  of  "Charles  II.,  or  the  Merry  Monarch,"  a 
three-act  comedy,  from  the  French  of  "La  Jeunesse  de 
Henri  V.,"  of  which^  as  far  as  I  can  understand,  he  was 


32  Cife  of  U/asbii?$tor; 

nearly,  if  not  quite,  the  sole  author,  or  adapter.  It  was  sold 
by  Payne  to  Covent  Garden  Theater  for  two  hundred  guineas, 
together  with  "La  Jeunesse  de  Richelieu,"  and  was  produced 
in  the  following  spring  (May,  1824)  with  great  success.  "La 
Jeunesse  de  Richelieu"  was  produced  nearly  two  years  later 
and  withdrawn  after  a  few  nights. 

Literary  activity  returned  to  Irving  during  this  curious 
dramatic  episode  in  his  career,  stimulated,  no  doubt,  by  a 
letter  from  Murray,  who  asked  him  what  he  might  expect 
from  him  in  the  course  of  the  whiter.  He  replied  that  he 
should  probably  have  two  more  volumes  of  the  "Sketch- 
Book"  ready  by  spring,  and  began  to  write  the  story  of 
Wolfert  Webber,  which  he  soon  laid  aside.  His  journal 
chronicles  the  progress  of  his  labor,  which  proceeded  at  a 
rapid  rate,  in  spite  of  his  dinings  out,  hastened,  perhaps,  by 
the  title  which  he  found  for  his  new  work,  "Tales  of  a  Trav- 
eler," and  by  Murray's  offering  twelve  hundred  guineas  for 
it,  without  seeing  the  manuscript.  When  it  was  finished  he 
took  it  over  to  London,  where  he  met  Murray — "who  behaved 
like  a  gentleman";  i.e.,  gave  him  fifteen  hundred  guineas 
for  it — as  well  as  several  celebrities,  including  William 
Spencer,  Proctor,  Rogers,  and  Moore,  the  last  of'  whom 
went  with  him  to  Bowood,  the  seat  of  Lord  Lansdowne. 
He  was  not  brilliant  as  a  conversationalist  at  this  time,  what- 
ever he  may  have  been  later,  for  Moore  notes  in  his  Diary 
that  at  two  dinners  which  he  mentions,  he  was  sleepy,  and 
did  not  open  his  mouth,  and  adds,  curtly,  "Not  strong  as  a 
lion,  but  delightful  as  a  domestic  animal." 

The  "Tales  of  a  Traveler"  appeared  in  two  volumes  in 
England,  and  in  America  in  four  parts.  It  sold  well  in  the 
former  country;  but  it  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  a 
literary  success  in  either,  especially  in  the  latter,  where  the 
press  were  hostile  to  it.  Wilson,  speaking  through  the  mouth 
of  Timothy  Tickler,  in  "Blackwood,"  said,  "I  have  been  ter- 
ribly disappointed  in  the  'Tales  of  a  Traveler';"  and  the  re- 
viewer of  the  "London  Quarterly,"  though  he  praises  the 
story  of  Buckthorne,  from  which  he  thought  it  probable  that 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii?<JtOQ  Iruii)$  33 


he  might,  as  a  novelist,  prove  no  contemptible  rival  to  Gold- 
smith, warns  him  that  he  must  in  future  be  true  to  his  own 
reputation  throughout,  and  correct  the  habits  of  indolence, 
which  so  considerable  a  part  of  the  work  evince. 

Irving's  next  intellectual  labor  after  his  return  to  France 
was  the  planning  of  a  series  of  papers,  the  proper  execution 
of  which  demanded,  I  think,  a  weightier  pen  than  he  pos- 
sessed, consisting,  as  it  did,  of  serious  essays  upon  American 
Manners,  National  Life,  Public  Prosperity,  Probity  of  Deal- 
ings, Education  of  Youth,  and  such  like  grave  and  moment- 
ous problems.  He  was  interrupted  in  the  writing  by  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Alexander  H.  Everett,  Minister  Plenipotentiary  of 
the  United  States  at  Madrid,  whom  he  had  previously  met 
at  Paris,  and  who  had,  at  his  request,  attached  him  to  the 
embassy.  This  letter  contained  his  passport,  and  a  proposi- 
tion from  Mr.  Everett  that  he  should  translate  Navarrete's 
"Voyages  of  Columbus,"  which  was  then  in  the  press.  It 
was  compiled  by  this  accomplished  scholar  from  the  papers 
of  Columbus,  as  preserved  by  the  famous  Bishop  Las  Casas, 
and  of  extracts  from  his  journal;  and  it  contained,  as  Irving 
found  shortly  after  his  arrival  at  Madrid,  many  documents 
hitherto  unknown,  which  threw  additional  light  on  the  dis- 
covery of  the  New  World  ;  but  was  defective  as  a  whole  (at 
any  rate  for  his  purpose),  in  that  it  was  rather  a  rich  mass 
for  history,  than  history  itself.  He  abandoned,  therefore, 
the  idea  of  translating  it,  and  began  to  institute  fresh  re- 
searches on  his  own  account,  examining  manuscripts,  and 
taking  voluminous  notes  for  a  regular  Life  of  the  great  navi- 
gator. 

Irving  commenced  his  task  in  February,  1826,  and  labored 
upon  it  unceasingly  for  six  months,  sometimes  writing  all 
day,  and  until  twelve  at  night.  His  attention  was  diverted 
from  it  in  August  by  the  "Conquest  of  Granada,"  which  so 
interested  him  that  he  devoted  himself  to  it  till  November, 
when  he  threw  aside  the  rough  draft,  and  returned  to  his 
greater  work,  which  was  not  ready  for  the  press  until  July 
of  the  following  year..  Leslie  had  sounded  Murray  about  the 


34  Cife  of  U/asl?ii)<$toi? 

latter  before  it  was  begun,  but  the  wily  publisher  fought  shy 
at  first.  "He  would  gladly,"  he  says,  "receive  anything 
from  you  of  original  matter,  which  he  considers  certain  of 
success,  whatever  it  might  be ;  but  with  regard  to  the  Voy- 
ages of  Columbus,  he  cannot  form  any  opinion  at  present." 
When  the  manuscript  was  finished,  Irving  sent  it  to  Eng- 
land, to  the  care  of  his  friend,  Colonel  Aspinwall,  American 
Consul  at  London,  whom  he  made  his  agent  in  the  disposal 
of  it,  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Murray,  in  which  he  stated  the 
sum  he  wanted  for  it — three  thousand  guineas;  but  also 
stated  that  he  would  be  willing  to  publish  on  shares.  Colonel 
Aspinwall  played  his  cards  so  well  that  Murray  concluded 
not  to  publish  it  on  shares,  but  to  pay  the  three  thousand 
guineas  out  and  out.  The  manuscript  was  shown  to  Southey, 
who  pronounced  the  most  unqualified  praise  of  it,  both  as  to 
matter  and  manner;  and  Murray  himself  said  it  was  beauti- 
ful, beautiful — the  best  thing  that  Irving  had  ever  written, 
By  the  publication  of  "The  Life  and  Voyages  of  Colum- 
bus," in  1828,  the  popularity  of  Irving,  which  had  waned 
somewhat  since  the  day  when  he  first  burst  upon  the  world 
of  English  readers  in  his  "Sketch-Book,"  rose  anew,  and 
shone  with  greater  luster.  The  importance  of  the  work  was 
recognized  on  both  sides  of  the  water,  as  well  as  the  brilliancy 
of  its  execution.  Jeffrey,  who  reviewed  it  in  the  "Edin- 
burgh," declared  that  it  was  not  only  excellent,  but  that  it 
would  endure.  "For  we  mean,"  he  explained,  "not  merely 
that  the  book  will  be  known  and  referred  to  twenty  or  thirty 
years  hence,  and  will  pass  in  solid  binding  into  every  consid- 
erable collection,  but  that  it  will  supersede  all  former  works 
on  the  same  subject,  and  never  be  itself  superseded."  Not 
less  enthusiastic  was  the  carefully  considered  opinion  of  Irv- 
ing's  friend,  Everett,  who  originally  suggested  the  transla- 
tion from  Navarrete,  out  of  which  it  had  grown,  and  who 
pronounced  it,  in  the  "North  American  Review,"  one  of  the 
few  books  which  are  at  once  the  delight  of  readers  and  the 
despair  of  critics.  "It  is  as  nearly  perfect  as  any  work  can 
be ;  and  there  is  little  or  nothing  left  for  the  reviewer  but  to 


Cife  of  U/asl?ii7$toi)  Irt/fi?$  35 

write  at  the  bottom  of  every  page,  as  Voltaire  said  he  would 
be  obliged  to  do  if  he  published  a  commentary  on  Racine, 
'Pulchre!  bene!  optime!'  He  has  at  length  filled  up  the 
Toid  that  before  existed  in  this  respect,  in  the  literature  of 
the  world,  and  produced  a  work  which  will  fully  satisfy  the 
public,  and  supersede  the  necessity  of  any  future  labors  in 
the  same  field.  While  we  venture  to  predict  that  the  adven- 
tures of  Columbus  will  hereafter  be  read  only  in  the  work  of 
Mr.  Irving,  we  cannot  but  think  it  a  beautiful  coincidence 
that  the  task  of  duly  celebrating  the  achievements  of  the  dis- 
coverer of  our  continent  should  have  been  reserved  for  one 
of  its  inhabitants;  and  that  the  earliest  professed  author  of 
first-rate  talent  who  appeared  among  us  should  have  devoted 
one  of  his  most  important  and  finished  works  to  this  pious 
purpose. 

"  'Such  honors  Ilion  to  her  hero  paid, 
And  peaceful  slept  the  mighty  Hector's  shade.' 

For  the  particular  kind  of  historical  writing  in  which  Mr. 
Irving  is  fitted  to  labor  and  excel,  the  'Life  of  Columbus'  is 
undoubtedly  one  of  the  very  best — perhaps  we  might  say, 
without  fear  of  any  mistake,  the  very  best — subject  afforded 
by  the  annals  of  the  world." 

The  magnitude  of  the  task  which  he  had  completed  so 
satisfactorily,  left  Irving  leisure  to  make  a  tour  which  he  had 
planned  with  his  brother  Peter,  but  the  ill-health  of  that  gen- 
tleman, who  now  returned  by  slow  stages  to  Paris,  compelled 
him  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  his  company,  and  to  replace  it 
by  the  company  of  two  Russian  diplomatists,  with  whom  he 
set  out  on  March  1,  by  the  diligence  for  Cordova.  They 
reached  Granada  in  safety,  notwithstanding  the  robbers  who 
were  said  to  beset  the  roads,  and  spent  several  days  in  trav- 
ersing the  city  and  its  environs.  From  Granada  the  travel- 
ers proceeded  to  Malaga,  and  thence  by  a  circuitous  route  to 
Gibraltar,  after  which  they  started  for  Cadiz,  where  Irving 
left  his  companions,  being  impatient  to  get  to  Seville,  and  to 
correct  and  complete  the  rough  draft  of  the  manuscript  of  the 


36  Cife  of  U/asl?ii?<$toi) 

"Conquest  of  Granada,"  which  diverted  his  attention  for  up- 
ward of  three  months  at  Madrid,  while  he  was  engaged  upon 
his  "Life  of  Columbus." 

The  summer  heat  being  overpowering  at  Seville,  Irving 
removed  to  a  little  country-seat  on  a  hill,  about  eight  miles 
from  Cadiz,  of  which  and  its  beautiful  bay  it  commanded  a 
view  on  one  side,  while  another  embraced  the  distant  moun- 
tains of  Honda.  Here  he  dispatched  to  England  half  the 
first  volume  of  the  "Conquest  of  Granada,"  as  a  fair  sample 
of  the  whole,  and  authorized  Colonel  Aspinwall  to  dispose  of 
it  to  Murray,  or  any  other  leading  and  respectable  bookseller, 
for  two  thousand  guineas,  or  as  near  that  sum  as  he  could 
get.  Before  a  month  was  over  he  received  a  letter  from 
Murray,  who  was  waiting  for  the  corrected  copy  of  Colum- 
bus, in  order  to  issue  a  new  edition,  and  who  had  purchased 
from  Wilkie  a  sketch  that  he  had  made  of  Irving's  likeness, 
which  he  meant  to  prefix  to  it.  A  second  letter  from  Murray 
contained  what  Irving  considered  the  best  critique  that  he 
had  ever  had  as  to  his  general  reputation  with  the  public.  It 
was  in  relation  to  a  monthly  magazine  which  Murray  was 
about  to  set  up,  on  a  purely  literary  and  scientific  basis,  and 
which  he  offered  Irving  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  to  edit, 
besides  paying  him  liberally  for  any  articles  which  he  might 
contribute.  In  fact,  the  salary,  with  other  offers  for  casual 
writing,  would  insure  him  at  least  seven  thousand  dollars  a 
year. 

Irving  declined  Murray's  proposal,  as  he  had  declined  a 
similar  one  from  Scott  nine  years  before,  partly  because  it 
would  oblige  him  to  fix  his  residence  out  of  America,  and 
partly  because  he  was  unwilling  to  shackle  himself  with  any 
periodical  labor.  Murray  concluded  to  purchase  his  new 
book  at  the  price  which  he  had  demanded — two  thousand 
guineas — and  published  it  early  in  1829,  under  the  title  of 
"A  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada,"  not  as  from  the 
manuscript  of  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  a  nom  de  guerre 
which  Irving  had  adopted,  but  as  by  Irving  himself;  an  un- 
warrantable liberty,  he  thought,  in  that  it  made  him,  gravely, 


Clfe  of  U/asb.ir;<$toi>  Irvip$  37 


in  his  own  name,  tell  many  round  untruths,  and  made  him 
also  responsible,  as  an  author,  for  the  existence  of  the  manu- 
script of  Agapida.  Coleridge  regarded  the  work  as  a  mas- 
terpiece of  romantic  narrative  ;  Prescott  believed  that  Irving 
availed  himself  of  all  the  picturesque  and  animating  move- 
ments of  the  period  which  he  had  treated,  and  that  he  was 
not  seduced  from  historical  accuracy  by  the  poetical  aspect 
of  his  subject  ;  and  Bryant,  a  fine  Spanish  scholar,  as  well  as 
an  admirable  literary  critic,  maintained  that  it  was  one  of  the 
most  delightful  of  his  works  —  an  exact  history,  for  such  it  is 
admitted  to  be  by  those  who  have  searched  most  carefully 
the  ancient  records  of  Spain  —  yet  so  full  of  personal  incident, 
so  diversified  with  surprising  turns  of  fortune,  and  these 
wrought  up  with  such  picturesque  effect,  that,  to  use  an  ex- 
pression of  Pope,  a  young  lady  might  read  it  by  mistake  for 
a  romance.  It  is  a  pleasant  thing  for  an  author  to  win  ap- 
probation from  members  of  his  own  craft  —  much  pleasanter, 
on  the  whole,  perhaps,  than  to  win  the  less  intelligent  appro- 
bation of  the  public;  but  unfortunately  for  his  ambition  and 
his  pocket,  it  is  only  the  last  which  is  of  substantial  benefit  to 
him.  It  was  now  withheld  from  Irving,  for  the  "Conquest 
of  Granada"  did  not  sell.  Before  it  saw  the  light  of  publica- 
tion Irving  had  returned  to  the  line  of  biographic  studies, 
which  its  composition  had  interrupted,  and  was  busy  in  trac- 
ing out  the  "Voyages  of  the  Companions  of  Columbus,"  and 
had  in  contemplation  a  series  of  Legends  connected  with  the 
Moorish  domination  in  Spain,  upon  which  he  wrote  from  time 
to  time  as  the  spirit  moved  him.  He  made  a  second  visit  to 
Granada  in  May,  1829,  and  lodged  in  the  Alhambra,  over 
whose  halls  and  courts  he  rambled  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
and  night.  While  he  was  residing  in  this  romantic  old  Moor- 
ish palace,  he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  Legation  to  Lon- 
don, whither  he  repaired  in  October.  Here  two  honors 
awaited  him:  the  first  being  a  gold  medal,  of  the  value  of 
fifty  guineas,  which  was  adjudged  to  him  by  the  Council 
of  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature,  the  other,  the  degree  of 
LL.D.,  which  was  conferred  upon  him  by  the  University 

58031 


88  Cife  of  U/a8bii)<$tor) 

of  Oxford.  Notwithstanding  these  honors,  of  which  an; 
man  of  letters  might  well  be  proud,  "and  of  the  persona 
esteem  and  affection  with  which  he  was  regarded,  there  cai 
be  no  doubt  that  his  reputation  had  lessened  since  the  publi 
cation  of  the  "Sketch-Book,"  in  1820,  and  of  the  "Life  an 
Voyages  of  Columbus,"  in  1828.  Whether  his  intermediat 
and  later  works  were  of  a  lower  order  of  literary  excellenc 
than  these  were  admitted  to  possess,  or  whether  that  many 
headed  beast,  the  public,  was  weary  of  them,  is  a  question 
do  not  feel  called  upon  to  decide.  It  is  enough  to  note  her 
that  his  popularity  was  so  greatly  on  the  wane  that  he  parte 
with  the  "Voyages  of  the  Companions  of  Columbus"  to  Mui 
ray  for  only  five  hundred  guineas;  and  that  his  sharp  busi 
ness  friend,  Colonel  Aspinwall,  could  only  obtain  a  thousan 
guineas  for  his  next  work,  "The  Alhambra,"  and  this  nc 
from  Murray,  but  from  Colburn  and  Bentley.  Of  the  re 
ception  of  these  characteristic  studies  of  old  Spain  and  th 
old  voyagers,  I  have  no  knowledge,  except  that  Mr.  Edwan 
Everett  wrote  concerning  the  last,  in  the  "North  America 
Review,"  that  it  was  equal,  in  literary  value,  to  any  othe 
of  the  same  class,  with  the  exception  of  the  "Sketch-Book,1 
and  that  he  should  not  be  surprised  if  it  were  read  as  extec 
sively  as  even  that  very  popular  production;  and  that  Preg 
cott,  the  historian,  characterized  it,  in  his  "History  of  Ferdi 
nand  and  Isabella,"  as  the  "beautiful  Spanish  S ketch-Book. ' 
Of  Irving's  diplomatic  life,  his  presentation  at  court,  etc., 
shall  not  speak,  nor  of  the  celebrities  whom  he  met,  only  on 
of  whom  is  likely  to  interest  now.  It  was  Scott,  who  wa 
then  in  London,  a  broken-down  old  man,  on  bis  way  to  Italy 
and  whom  he  met  again  at  a  family  dinner,  at  which  he  wa 
the  only  stranger  present.  "Ah,  my  dear  fellow, "  said  Scott 
who  was  seated  as  he  entered,  "time  has  dealt  lightly  wit] 
you  since  last  we  met."  The  mind  of  the  great  magiciai 
flickered  fitfully  during  the  dinner;  now  and  then  he  strucl 
up  a  story  in  his  old  way,  but  the  light  soon  died  out,  hi 
head  sank,  and  his  countenance  fell,  when  he  saw  that  h 
had  failed  to  bring  out  his  points.  When  the  ladies  went  up 


Cife  of  U/astyi^toi?  Iruii)<?  39 

stairs  after  dinner,  Lockhart  said  to  his  guest,  "Irving,  give 
Scott  your  arm."  The  grand  old  man,  mournful  in  ruin, 
took  the  arm  that  was  offered  him,  and  grasping  his  cane 
with  the*  other  hand,  said,  "Ah,  the  times  are  changed,  my 
good  fellow,  since  we  went  over  the  Eildon  hills  together. 
It  is  all  nonsense  to  tell  a  man  that  his  mind  is  not  affected 
when  his  body  is  in  this  state."  They  never  met  again;  for 
the  mighty  minstrel  died  the  next  year,  and  Irving  returned 
to  America  after  an  absence  of  seventeen  years,  lacking  four 


Irving 's  arrival  was  anticipated  by  his  friends,  who  re- 
ceived him  with  the  greatest  cordiality,  and  gave  him  a 
public  dinner  at  the  City  Hotel,  which  was  presided  over  by 
his  early  friend,  Chancellor  Kent,  who  had  so  promptly  dis- 
missed him  to  the  world  of  shades  thirty  years  before.  The 
ordeal  was  a  trying  one  to  the  modest  man  of  letters,  who 
had  a  nervous  horror  of  personal  publicity,  but  he  acquitted 
himself  creditably,  as  the  newspapers  of  that  day  testify.  It 
was,  of  course,  the  happiest  moment  of  his  life,  and  was  ren- 
dered more  so  because  it  proved  that  the  misgivings  which 
had  haunted  him  that  his  countrymen  believed  he  was  alien- 
ated from  them,  were  groundless.  He  spoke  of  the  changes 
which  had  come  over  New  York  during  his  absence,  the  emo- 
tions which  he  had  experienced  when  he  beheld  it,  as  he 
sailed  up  the  harbor,  seated  in  the  midst  of  its  watery  do- 
main, with  the  sunshine  lighting  up  its  domes,  and  the  forest 
of  masts  at  its  piers  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach;  and  how 
his  heart  throbbed  with  joy  and  pride  as  he  felt  he  had  a 
birthright  in  the  brilliant  scene  before  him.  "I  am  asked 
how  long  I  mean  to  remain  here?  They  know  but  little  of 
my  heart  or  my  feelings  who  can  ask  me  this  question.  I 
answer,  as  long  as  I  live."  Here  the  roof  rang  with  bravos, 
handkerchiefs  were  waved,  cheers  were  given  over  and  over 
again,  and  he  finally  sat  down,  satisfied  that  he  had  done 
better  than  he  expected.  Shortly  after  this  dinner  Irving  re- 
paired to  Washington,  to  settle  his  accounts  with  the  Grovern- 
ment,  and  to  meet  the  friends  of  his  earlier  years — Mr.  Louis 


40  Cife  of  U/asl?ii}<$toi> 

McLane,  late  Minister  to  England,  Henry  Clay,  General 
Jackson,  and  others.  Returning  to  New  York,  he  made  a 
trip  up  the  Hudson  as  far  as  Tarrytown,  and  thence  to  Sara- 
toga and  Trenton  Falls.  He  meditated  a  tour  in  thet western 
part  of  New  York,  Ohio,  Kentucky,  and  Tennessee,  but  he 
changed  his  plan,  and  joined  an  expedition  to  the  far  "West, 
in  company  with  three  commissioners  appointed  to  treat  with 
deputations  of  the  different  tribes  of  Indians.  He  started 
from  Cincinnati  on  September  3d,  reached  Independence,  Mis- 
souri, on  the  %Mth  of  that  month,  Fort  Gibson,  Arkansas,  on 
October  9th,  and  Montgomery  Point,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ar- 
kansas, early  in  November.  A  voyage  by  steamboat  down 
the  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans,  and  thence  to  Washington, 
and  so  back  to  New  York,  completed  the  tour.  The  ground 
over  which  he  had  traversed,  which  was  then  but  little 
known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  more  civilized  portions  of 
the  United  States,  and  the  incidents  and  experiences  of  travel 
with  which  it  was  surrounded,  determined  him  to  turn  them 
to  account.  He  set  about  a  narrative  of  what  he  had  seen 
and  undergone,  in  the  midst  of  other  avocations,  and,  writing 
leisurely,  completed  it  by  the  end  of  the  following  year.  It 
was  entitled,  "A  Tour  on  the  Prairies,"  and  was  published 
in  London,  in  1835,  by  Murray,  from  whom  Colonel  Aspin- 
wall  succeeded  in  obtaining  four  hundred  pounds  for  it. 
"What  reception  it  met  with  in  England  I  know  not.  It  was 
welcomed  here,  and  by  none  more  warmly  than  Edward 
Everett,  in  the  "North  American  Review."  "To  what 
class  of  compositions  the  present  work  belongs,"  he  wrote, 
"we  are  hardly  able  to  say.  It  can  scarcely  be  called  a  book 
of  travels,  for  there  is  too  much  painting  of  manners  and 
scenery,  and  too  little  statistics;  it  is  not  a  novel,  for  there 
is  no  story ;  and  it  is  not  a  romance,  for  it  is  all  true.  It  is 
a  sort  of  sentimental  journey,  a  romantic  excursion,  in  which 
nearly  all  the  elements  of  several  different  kinds  of  writing 
are  beautifully  and  gayly  blended  into  a  production  almost 
sui  generis."  He  then  expressed  his  pride  in  Irving 's 
sketches  of  English  life,  and  the  gorgeous  canvas  upon 


Cife  of  U/a8f?ii?<$toi>  Irvii>$  41 


which  he  had  gathered  in  so  much  of  the  glowing  imagery 
of  Moorish  times,  but  was  more  pleased  to  see  him  come  back 
laden  with  the  poetical  treasures  of  the  primitive  wilderness, 
and  with  spoils  from  the  uninhabited  desert.  "We  thank 
him  for  turning  these  poor,  barbarous  steppes  into  classical 
land,  and  joining  his  inspiration  to  that  of  Cooper  in  breath- 
ing life  and  fire  into  a  circle  of  imagery,  which  was  not 
known  before  to  exist,  for  the  purposes  of  the  imagination.'* 
To  revive,  perhaps,  the  nom  de  plume  by  which  he  had  be- 
come best  known  among  English-reading  people,  Irving  pub- 
lished "A  Tour  on  the  Prairies"  as  the  first  number  of  the 
"Crayon  Miscellany."  It  was  followed  in  the  course  of  two 
or  three  months  by  a  second  number,  entitled,  "Abbotsford 
and  Newstead  Abbey,  '  '  for  which  Colonel  Aspinwall  obtained 
from  Murray  the  sum  of  four  hundred  pounds,  with  a  prom- 
ise of  two  hundred  pounds  more  when  a  second  edition  should 
be  reached.  It  appears  to  have  been  successful,  for  Colonel 
Aspinwall  wrote  to  Irving,  "  Murray  says  Abbotsford  delights 
everybody,  especially  the  Lockharts."  The  third  number  of 
the  "Crayon  Miscellany,"  "Legends  of  Spain,"  was  sent 
about  six  weeks  later  to  the  same  publisher,  who  declined  it 
at  the  price  demanded,  but  put  it  to  press  on  the  author's 
account,  whereby  Irving  realized  only  one  hundred  pounds. 
Not  long  after  his  return  to  the  United  States,  Irving  was 
applied  to  by  Mr.  John  Jacob  Astor,  to  write  about  his  set- 
tlement of  Astoria  at  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia  Kiver.  He 
declined  the  undertaking,  being  engrossed  with  other  plans, 
but  recommended  his  nephew,  Mr.  Pierre  Munro  Irving,  as 
one  who  might  aid  him  in  preparing  the  materials,  in  which 
case  he  would  have  no  objection  in  putting  the  finishing  hand 
to  the  work.  Mr.  Astor  caught  at  the  idea,  and  Mr.  Pierre 
Irving,  who  was  then  in  Illinois,  came  to  New  York,  at  the 
request  of  his  uncle,  and  the  pair  commenced  their  joint 
labors  at  a  country  house,  belonging  to  Mr.  Astor,  at  Hell- 
gate.  He  paid  his  authors  liberally,  the  younger  for  his  in- 
dustry as  a  compiler,  the  elder  for  his  skill  as  a  literary  artist 
and  the  use  of  his  name,  and  was  fully  satisfied  with  their 


42  Cife  of  U/asl?ii}<$toi)  ' 

endeavors  to  hand  him  down  to  posterity  as  a  colonist 
as  a  millionaire.  "Astoria"  was  published  in  1836.  Mr. 
Edward  Everett,  speaking,  as  usual,  through  the  "North 
American,"  saw  in  it,  as  a  whole,  the  impress  of  Irving's 
taste,  and  sketches  of  life  and  character  worthy  of  the  pen 
of  Geoffrey  Crayon ;  and  an  anonymous  writer  in  the  London 
"Spectator"  considered  it  the  most  finished  narrative  of  such 
a  series  of  adventures  that  was  ever  written.  While  Irving 
was  residing  at  the  country  seat  of  Mr.  Astor,  where  he  had 
for  companions  the  poet  Halleck,  and  Charles  Astor  Bristed, 
then  a  lad  of  fourteen,  he  met  Captain  Bonneville,  of  the 
.United  States  army,  a  type  of  man  not  uncommon  at  the 
time,  who  had  engrafted  the  hunter  and  the  trapper  upon 
the  soldier,  and  in  whom  he  was  much  interested.  He  met 
this  gentleman  again  in  the  following  winter  at  Washington, 
where  he  was  engaged  in  re- writing  and  extending  his  trav- 
eling notes,  and  making  maps  of  the  regions  he  had  explored, 
and  he  purchased  his  materials,  out  of  which,  together  with 
other  facts  and  details  gathered  from  different  sources,  con- 
versations, journals  of  the  captain's  contemporaries,  and  the 
like,  he  wrought  a  volume  of  frontier  life,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  1837,  as  the  "Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville," 
and  for  which  Bentley  paid  him  nine  hundred  pounds  for  an 
English  edition,  which  was  four  hundred  pounds  more  than 
he  had  paid  for  "Astoria." 

In  the  course  of  his  home-travels,  shortly  after  his  return 
to  America,  Irving  saw  a  rural  site  at  Tarry  town,  on  the 
Hudson,  not  far  from  the  residence  of  his  nephew,  Oscar, 
which  struck  his  fancy.  It  consisted  of  ten  acres,  when  he 
purchased  it  in  the  summer  of  1835,  and  contained  a  cottage 
about  a  century  old,  which  he  concluded  to  rebuild  into  a  lit- 
tle rookery  in  the  old  Dutch  style.  He  accordingly  sent  up 
an  architect  and  workmen,  who  between  them  built  him  a 
stone  house  at  considerable  cost,  in  which,  surrounded  with 
Christmas  greens,  he  was  settled  with  his  brother  Peter,  in 
January,  1837.  In  this  cozy  mansion,  which  he  at  first 
christened  "Wolfert's  Roost,"  and  afterward  "Sunny  Side," 


Cife  of  U/asl?ir)<$tor} 

he  finished  the  "Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville,"  and, 
his  mind  still  running  on  the  might  of  Old  Spain,  which  he 
had  illustrated  so  brilliantly  in  his  "Life  of  Columbus,"  he 
commenced  what  promised  to  be  a  greater  work  than  that, 
and  which  like  that  was  to  concern  itself  with  Castilian 
domination  in  the  New  World — the  "History  of  the  Spanish 
Conquest  of  Mexico."  When  he  had  made  a  rough  draft  of 
the  groundwork  of  the  first  volume,  he  came  down  to  the 
city  to  consult  authorities  in  the  New  York  Society  Library, 
where  he  met  Mr.  Joseph  G.  Cogswell,  whom  he  knew,  and 
who  asked  him  what  new  work  he  had  in  hand,  sounding 
him  in  the  interest  of  Prescott,  who  had  lately  published  his 
"History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella."  "Is  Mr.  Prescott 
engaged  upon  an  American  subject?"  inquired  Irving.  He 
was  told  that  he  was,  and  that  it  was  the  "Conquest  of 
Mexico."  With  a  generosity,  of  which  few  men  could  have 
been  capable,  Irving  then  and  there  abandoned  his  plan,  and 
desired  Mr.  Cogswell  to  say  as  much  to  Prescott,  whose  claim 
to  it  (supposing  he  had  any)  was  certainly  less  than  his  own, 
in  that  he  had  merely  collected  materials  for  it.  Prescott 
acknowledged  his  courtesy  in  a  grateful  letter,  in  which  he 
dwelt  upon  the  mortification  he  would  have  felt  if  he  found 
him  occupying  the  ground,  and  expressed  a  fear  that  the 
public  would  not  be  so  well  pleased  as  himself  by  Irving 's 
liberal  conduct,  of  which  he  was  not  sure  that  he  should  have 
a  right  in  their  eyes  to  avail  himself.  The  giving  up  of  this 
great  task,  which  occupied  Prescott  five  years,  left  Irving  at 
leisure  to  renew  his  early  acquaintance  with  the  British  Es- 
sayists, and  to  revise  a  biographical  study  which  he  had  exe- 
cuted some  fifteen  years  before.  This  was  a  "Life  of  Gold- 
smith," which  he  had  prepared  at  Paris,  for  Galignani,  for 
a  collection  of  British  Authors  that  he  undertook  to  edit,  and 
which  he  now  re-wrote  for  the  "Family  Library,"  of  which 
the  Harpers  were  the  publishers.  This  was  followed  by  a 
second  and  a  much  less  important  biographical  study,  a  "Life 
of  Margaret  Davidson,"  the  younger  of  two  American  sis- 
ters, who  had  a  childish  talent  for  writing  verse,  which  her 


*4  Cife  of 

friends  called  poetry  and  who  had  died  of  consumption  in  her 
sixteenth  year. 

Two  political  honors  were  offered  Irving  in  his  fifty-fifth 
year,  one  being  a  unanimous  nomination  as  Mayor  of  New 
York,  from  Tammany  Hall,  the  other  the  appointment  of 
Secretary  of  the  Navy,  from  President  Van  Buren.  He  ac- 
cepted neither,  wisely  preferring  to  the  doubtful  distinction 
they  might  have  bestowed  upon  him,  the  peaceful  security 
of  his  cottage  and  the  society  of  his  relatives.  The  relin- 
quishment  of  the  "Conquest  of  Mexico,"  left  him  at  leisure 
for  lesser  undertakings,  which  he  found  in  writing  a  series 
of  papers  for  the  "Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  his  connection 
with  which  lasted  from  March,  1839,  to  March,  1841.  Be- 
fore the  latter  date  (February  10)  he  received  what  he  called 
"the  crowning  honor  of  his  life."  It  came  in  the  shape  of 
the  appointment  of  Minister  to  Spain,  which  was  forwarded 
to  him  by  Daniel  Webster,  who  remarked,  when  sufficient 
time  had  elapsed  for  the  news  to  reach  him,  "Washington 
Irving  is  the  most  astonished  man  in  New  York."  Hard 
upon  his  appointment  the  new  minister  was  called  on  to  at- 
tend the  dinner  which  the  citizens  of  New  York  gave  Dick- 
ens, at  which  it  was  decided  that  he  must  preside,  and  where 
he  did  preside,  with  much  trepidation,  making  one  of  the 
shortest  dinner  speeches  on  record.  "There,"  he  said,  as 
he  concluded  his  broken  sentences  by  proposing  the  health  of 
Dickens,  as  the  guest  of  the  nation,  "There!  I  told  you  I 
should  break  down,  and  I've  done  it." 

Irving  embarked  for  Europe  for  the  third  time,  on  April 
10,  1841.  He  soon  reached  London,  where  he  waited  upon 
his  friend,  Edward  Everett,  then  American  Minister,  who 
presented  him  to  Queen  Victoria,  at  the  levee,  where  he  met 
several  of  his  old  acquaintances,  among  them  the  ministers, 
Lord  Aberdeen,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  etc.,  who  were  cordial  in 
their  recognitions.  He  also  met,  at  a  dinner  party  at  Mr. 
Everett's,  the  veteran  poet  and  wit,  Rogers,  who  took  him 
in  his  arms  in  a  paternal  manner;  and  at  an  anniversary  din- 
ner of  the  Literary  Fund,  he  met  Moore,  upon  whom  the 


Cife  of  U/asbii}<$top  Irvii)<?  45 

cares  of  the  world  were  thickening,  and  to  whom  he  declared 
his  intention  of  not  speaking;  "that  Dickens  dinner,"  as  he 
explained  to  the  more  glib-tongued  poet,  still  haunting  his 
imagination  with  the  memory  of  his  break-down.  Irving 
hardly  filled  the  character  of  an  embassador,  as  defined  by 
Sir  Henry  Wotton,  i.e.,  "one  sent  to  lie  abroad  for  the  good 
of  his  country";  for,  setting  aside  his  natural  incapacity  for 
mendacity,  the  good  of  his  country  demanded  nothing  of  the 
kind  from  him,  whatever  it  may  have  done  from  our  Minis- 
ter to  England,  who  had  the  Oregon  affair  upon  his  hands. 
The  diplomatic  life  of  Irving,  which  occupied  four  years, 
need  not  detain  us  long.  From  London  he  proceeded  to 
Paris,  where,  as  in  duty  bound,  he  called  upon  General  Cass, 
our  Minister  to  France,  who  drove  out  with  him  one  evening 
to  Neuilly,  and  presented  him  to  Louis  Philippe,  his  queen, 
and  his  sister,  Madame  Adelaide,  all  of  whom  took  occasion 
to  say  something  complimentary  about  his  writings.  He 
arrived  at  Madrid  on  July  25,  and  installed  himself  in  the 
apartments  of  his  predecessor  in  the  hotel  of  the  Duke  of  San 
Lorenzo.  Six  days  later  he  had  an  audience  of  the  Regent, 
Espartero,  Duke  of  Victoria.  He  was  then  driven  to  the 
royal  palace,  and  presented  to  the  little  queen,  a  child  of 
twelve,  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  intriguing  statesmen,  who 
went  through  the  part  assigned  to  her  with  childish  dignity. 
Irving 's  letters  to  his  relatives  are  largely  made  up  of  ac- 
counts of  the  politics  of  the  country  to  which  he  was 
accredited,  and  which  are  mildly  described  by  the  word 
stormy.  The  Regent,  Espartero,  for  example,  was  speedily 
overthrown,  and  the  child  queen  was  in  the  hands  of  Nar- 
vaez  and  his  adherents,  who  issued  juntas,  pronunciamentos, 
and  what  not  in  the  way  of  sounding  public  documents.  He 
was  a  sagacious  observer  who  could  understand,  and  a  rapid 
penman  who  could  narrate,  the  events  which  Irving  wit- 
nessed during  his  residence  in  Spain,  and  which  it  was  his 
embassadorial  duty  to  communicate  to  his  government.  The 
amount  of  diplomatic  business  which  now  devolved  upon  him 
left  him  no  time  to  perform  a  task  which  was  near  his  heart, 


46  Cife  of  U7asl?ii><$toi) 

and  upon  which  he  had  hoped  to  labor  diligently.  This  was 
a  "Life  of  "Washington,"  which  had  been  proposed  to  him 
by  Constable,  the  publisher,  in  1825,  while  he  was  residing 
at  Paris,  and  which  he  declined  at  that  time  from  a  modest 
diffidence  of  his  powers.  "I stand  in  too  great  awe  of  it," 
he  wrote.  Long  brooded  over,  and  fairly  begun,  at  "Wol- 
fert's  Roost,"  he  made  but  little  progress  with  it  at  Madrid. 
His  post  finally  grew  so  irksome  to  him  that  he  resigned  it 
in  December,  1845,  and  impatiently  awaited  his  successor, 
who  appeared  during  the  following  summer,  in  the  person  of 
General  Romulus  M.  Saunders,  of  North  Carolina.  Irving 
turned  his  back  on  the  Old  World  for  the  last  time  in  Lon- 
don, early  in  September,  1846,  and  on  the  19th  of  that  month 
was  at  home  once  more  in  his  beloved  "Sunny  Side." 

The  last  years  of  Irving's  life  were  passed  in  the  en- 
joyment of  the  leisure  and  the  honors  that  he  had  earned. 
His  chief  residence  was  at  "Sunny  Side,"  though  he  made 
occasional  journeys,  as  in  his  early  days,  and  his  chief  em- 
ployment was  the  task  upon  which  he  had  long  set  his  heart 
—"The  Life  of  Washington" — and  the  collection  and  revision 
of  a  complete  edition  of  his  works,  many  of  which  were  by 
this  time  out  of  print.  This  edition,  which  was  commenced 
in  the  summer  of  1848,  contained,  in  addition  to  the  list  of 
Irving's  writings  in  the  preceding  pages,  three  later  publica- 
tions, "Oliver  Goldsmith"  (1849),  "Mahomet  and  his  Suc- 
cessors" (1850),  and  "Wolfert's  Roost"  (1855).  The  first 
was  a  subject  which  had  engaged  his  attention  twice  before, 
and  to  which  he  was  led  to  return  by  the  appearance  of  For- 
ster's  "Life  of  Goldsmith,"  which  his  publisher  thought  of 
reprinting.  This  charming  book  so  freshened  the  memory 
of  his  favorite  author,  and  stimulated  his  power  of  work,  that 
in  less  than  two  months  the  sheets  of  his  third  biographical 
study  were  in  the  printer's  hands.  "Mahomet  and  his  Suc- 
cessors," the  last  of  the  series  of  writings  which  he  had  pro- 
jected during  his  first  residence  in  Madrid,  illustrative  of  the 
Moorish  domination  in  Spain,  was  originally  prepared  for 
Murray's  "Family  Library"  in  1831,  but  circumstances  pre- 


Cife  of  U/asl7ii)$toi?  Iruii?$  47 

venting  its  publication  at  the  time,  it  was  thrown  aside  for 
years.  The  neglected  manuscript  was  found  by  Minister 
Irving  among  his  papers  during  his  last  residence  in  Spain, 
where  he  beguiled  the  tediousness  of  illness  by  revising  it, 
profiting,  as  he  did  so,  by  the  light  which  later  writers  had 
shed  upon  the  subject,  particularly  Dr.  Gustav  Weil,  libra- 
rian of  the  University  of  Heidelberg,  who  is  still  an  author- 
ity among  the  biographers  of  the  great  Arabian  prophet. 
These  additions  to  the  body  of  his  writings,  excellent  as  they 
were  in  themselves,  and  important  as  they  would  have  been 
in  the  life  of  a  lesser  author,  were  merely  diversions  from  the 
labor  which  constantly  occupied  his  mind  and  his  pen  as  they 
slowly,  but  surely,  proceeded  with  his  ' '  Life  of  Washington, ' ' 
the  first  volume  of  which  was  published  shortly  after  "Wol- 
fert's  Roost,"  in  1855,  the  fifth  and  last  volume  hi  1859,  a 
few  months  before  his  death. 

Irving  died  on  the  night  of  November  28,  1859,  and  all 
that  was  mortal  of  him  was  buried  on  the  1st  of  December  at 
Tarrytown.  It  was  a  beautiful  winter  day,  clear  and  sunny, 
radiant  with  the  still  lingering  Indian  summer,  which  shed  a 
soft  and  melancholy  light  over  the  solemn  scene.  "It  was 
one  of  his  own  days,"  said  the  mourners,  as  they  rode  from 
"Sunny  Side"  to  Christ  Church,  where  the  funeral  services 
were  held,  and  thence  to  the  cemetery,  about  a  mile  distant, 
on  the  side  of  a  hill,  with  a  view  of  the  Hudson  on  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  of  the  valley  of  Sleepy  Hollow— classic 
ground,  which  the  genius  of  Irving  has  made  immortal. 

"His  youth  was  innocent;  his  riper  age 

Marked- with  some  act  of  goodness  every  day ; 
And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm  and  sage, 

Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 
Meekly  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 
To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well  spent. 

"That  life  was  happy  ;  every  day  he  gave 

Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his ; 
For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  his  slave, 
To  mock  him  with  his  phantom  miseries. 


48  Cife  of  U/asl?ii7<$tO]? 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

"And  I  am  glad  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 
And  glad  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward ; 
Nor  can  I  deem  that  Nature  did  him  wrong, 

Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 
For  when  his  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 
Faint  with  the  marks  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die." 

So  sang  the  greatest  of  our  poets,  Bryant,  in  his  early 
manhood,  in  "The  Old  Man's  Funeral,"  a  touching  poem  in 
which  he  celebrated  a  blameless  life  like  that  of  Irving;  and 
in  his  Oration  in  memory  of  the  latter,  a  few  months  after 
his  death,  he  addressed  his  departed  friend  in  the  following 
eloquent  words :  "Farewell!  thou  who  hast  entered  into  the 
rest  prepared,  from  the  foundation  of  the  world,  for  serene 
and  gentle  spirits  like  thine.  Farewell!  happy  in  thy  life, 
happy  in  thy  death,  happier  in  the  reward  to  which  that 
death  was  the  assured  passage ;  fortunate  in  attracting  the 
admiration  of  the  world  to  thy  beautiful  writings,  still  more 
fortunate  in  having  written  nothing  which  did  not  tend  to 
promote  the  range  of  magnanimous  forbearance  and  gener- 
ous sympathies  among  thy  f ellowmen ;  the  lightness  of  that 
enduring  fame  which  thou  hast  won  on  earth  is  but  a  shadowy 
symbol  of  the  glory  to  which  thou  art  admitted  in  the  world 
beyond  the  grave.  Thy  errand  upon  earth  was  an  errand  of 
.peace  and  good- will  to  men,  and  thou  art  in  a  region  where 
hatred  and  strife  never  enter,  and  where  the  harmonious  ac- 
tivity of  those  who  inhabit  it  acknowledges  no  impulse  less 
noble  or  less  holy  than  that  of  love." 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

OP 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


"I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for.  A 
mere  spectator  of  other  men's  fortunes  and  adventures,  and  how 
they  play  their  parts ;  which,  methinks,  are  diversely  presented 
unto  me,  as  from  a  common  theater  or  scene. "— BURTON. 


*  *  *3  VOL.  I. 


TO 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART., 
THIS  WORK  IS  DEDICATED,  IN  TESTIMONY 

OF  THE 

ADMIRATION  AND  AFFECTION 

OF 

THE  AUTHOR 


ADVERTISEMENT 

TO    THE 

FIRST    AMERICAN    EDITION 


THE  following  writings  are  published  on  experiment; 
should  they  please,  they  may  be  followed  by  others.  The 
writer  will  have  to  contend  with  some  disadvantages.  He 
is  unsettled  in  his  abode,  subject  to  interruptions,  and  has  his 
share  of  cares  and  vicissitudes.  He  cannot,  therefore,  prom- 
ise a  regular  plan,  nor  regular  periods  of  publication.  Should 
he  be  encouraged  to  proceed,  much  time  may  elapse  between 
the  appearance  of  his  numbers ;  and  their  size  will  depend  on 
the  materials  he  may  have  on  hand.  His  writings  will  par- 
take of  the  fluctuations  of  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings; 
sometimes  treating  of  scenes  before  him,  sometimes  of  others 
purely  imaginary,  and  sometimes  wandering  back  with  his 
recollections  to  his  native  country.  He  will  not  be  able  to 
give  them  that  tranquil  attention  necessary  to  finished  com- 
position; and  as  they  must  be  transmitted  across  the  Atlantic 
for  publication,  he  will  have  to  trust  to  others  to  correct  the 
frequent  errors  of  the  press.  Should  his  writings,  however, 
with  all  their  imperfections,  be  well  received,  he  cannot  con- 
ceal that  it  would  be  a  source  of  the  purest  gratification ;  for 
though  he  does  not  aspire  to  those  high  honors  which  are  the 
rewards  of  loftier  intellects,  yet  it  is  the  dearest  wish  of  his 
heart  to  have  a  secure  and  cherished,  though  humble  corner 
in  the  good  opinions  and  kind  feelings  of  his  countrymen. 

London,  1819.  51 


ADVERTISEMENT 

TO    THE 

FIRST    ENGLISH    EDITION 


THE  following  desultory  papers  are  part  of  a  series  writ- 
ten in  this  country,  but  published  in  America.  The  author 
is  aware  of  the  austerity  with  which  the  writings  of  his  coun- 
trymen have  hitherto  been  treated  by  British  critics;  he  is 
conscious,  too,  that  much  of  the  contents  of  his  papers  can 
be  interesting  only  in  the  eyes  of  American  readers.  It  was 
not  his  intention,  therefore,  to  have  them  reprinted  in  this 
country.  He  has,  however,  observed  several  of  them  from 
time  to  time  inserted  in  periodical  works  of  merit,  and  has 
understood  that  it  was  probable  they  would  be  republished 
in  a  collective  form.  He  has  been  induced,  therefore,  to  re- 
vise and  bring  them  forward  himself,  that  they  may  at  least 
come  correctly  before  the  public.  Should  they  be  deemed 
of  sufficient  importance  to  attract  the  attention  of  critics,  he 
solicits  for  them  that  courtesy  and  candor  which  a  stranger 
has  some  right  to  claim  who  presents  himself  at  the  threshold 
of  a  hospitable  nation. 

February,  1820. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF 

"I  am  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept  out  of 
her  shel  was  turned  eftsoones  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was  forced  to 
make  a  stoole  to  sit  on ;  so  the  traveler  that  stragleth  from  his  owne 
country  is  in  a  short  time  transformed  into  so  monstrous  a  shape,  that 
he  is  faine  to  alter  his  mansion  with  his  manners,  and  to  live  where  he 
can,  not  where  he  would." — Lyly's  Euphues 

I  WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and  observing 
strange  characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child 
I  began  my  travels71m7r~maHe  many  tours  of  discovery  into 
foreign  parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the 
frequent  alarm  of  my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the 
town  crier.  As  I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range 
of  my  observations.  My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent  in 
rambles  about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made  myself 
familiar  with  all  its  places  famous  in  history  or  fable.  I 
knew  every  spot  where  a  murder  or  robbery  had  been  com- 
mitted, or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neighboring  villages, 
and  added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowledge,  by  noting  their 
habits  and  customs,  and  conversing  with  their  sages  and 
great  men.  I  even  journeyed  one  long  summer's  day  to  the 
summit  of  the  most  distant  hill,  from  whence  I  stretched  my 
eye  over  many  a  mile  of  terra  incognita,  and  was  astonished 
to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years. 
Books  of  voyages  and  travel  became  my  jmssion,  and  in  de- 
vouring their  contents  I  neglected  the  regular  exercises  of 
the  school.  How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier- 
heads in  fine  weather,  and  watch  the  parting  ships,  bound 
to  distant  climes — with  what  longing  eyes  would  I  gaze  after 

(53) 


54  T^e  /lutlpor's  /loooupt  of  Jlimself 

their  lessening  sails,  and  waft  myself  in  imagination  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth ! 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought  this 
vague  inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only  served 
to  make  it  more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own 
country ;  and  had  I  been  merely  influenced  by  a  love  of  fine 
scenery,  I  should  have  felt  little  desire  to  seek  elsewhere  its 
gratification ;  for  on  no  country  have  the  charms  of  nature 
been  more  prodigally  lavished.  Her  mighty  lakes,  like 
oceans  of  liquid  silver;  her  mountains,  with  their  bright 
aerial  tints;  her  valleys,  teeming  with  wild  fertility;  her 
tremendous  cataracts,  thundering  in  their  solitudes;  her 
boundless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous  verdure;  her 
broad  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence  to  the  ocean; 
her  trackless  forests,  where  vegetation  puts  forth  all  its  mag- 
nificence; her  skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of  summer 
clouds  and  glorious  sunshine: — no,  never  need  an  American 
look  beyond  his  own  country  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful 
of  natural  scenery. 

But  Europe  held  forth  all  the  charms  of  storied  and  poeti- 
cal association.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  masterpieces  of 
art,  the  refinements  of  highly  cultivated  society,  the  quaint 
peculiarities  of  ancient  and  local  custom.  My  native  country 
was  full  of  youthful  promise;  Europe  was  rich  in  the  ac- 
cumulated treasures  of  age.  Her  very  rums  told  the  history 
of  times  gone  by,  and  every  mouldering  stone  was  a  chronicle. 
I  longed  to  wander  over  the  scenes  of  renowned  achievement 
—to  tread,  as  it  were,  in  the  footsteps  of  antiquity — to  loiter 
about  the  ruined  castle — to  meditate  on  the  falling  tower — to 
escape,  in  short,  from  the  commonplace  realities  of  the  pres- 
ent, and  lose  myself  among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the 
past. 

I  had,  beside  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the  great 
men  of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great  men  in 
America :  not  a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of  them.  I 
have  mingled  among  them  in  my  time,  and  been  almost 
withered  by  the  shade  into  which  they  cast  me ;  for  there  is 


Tfye  /Uitlpor's  flQQOuyt  of  flimself  55 

nothing  so  baleful  to  a  small  man  as  the  shade  of  a  great 
one,  particularly  the  great  man  of  a  city.  But  I  was  anx- 
ious to  see  the  great  men  of  Europe ;  for  I  had  read  in  the 
works  of  various  philosophers  that  all  animals  degenerated 
in  America,  and  man  among  the  number.  A  great  man  of 
Europe,  thought  I,  must  therefore  be  as  superior  to  a  great 
man  of  America  as  a  peak  of  the  Alps  to  a  highland  of  the 
Hudson ;  and  in  this  idea  I  was  confirmed,  by  observing  the 
comparative  importance  and  swelling  magnitude  of  many 
English  travelers  among  us,  who,  I  was  assured,  were  very 
little  people  in  their  own  country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of 
wonders,  thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which  I 
am  degenerated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  roving 
passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered  through  different  coun- 
tries, and  witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  phi- 
losopher, but  rather  with  the  sauntering  gaze  with  which 
humble  lovers  of  the  picturesque  stroll  from  the  window  of 
one  print-shop  to  another;  caught  sometimes  by  the  delinea- 
tions of  beauty,  sometimes  by  the  distortions  of/caricature, 
and  sometimes  by  the  loveliness  of  landscape.  ;  As  it  is  the 
fashion  for  modern  tourists  to  travel  pencil  in  hand,  and 
bring  home  their  portfolios  filled  with  sketches^  I  am  dis- 
posed to  get  up  a  few  for  the  entertainment  of  my  friends.) 
When,  however,,  I  look  over  the  hints  and  memorandums  I 
have  taken  down  for  the  purpose,  my  heart  almost  fails  me, 
at  finding  how  my  idle  humor  has  led  me  aside  from  the 
great  objects  studied  by  every  regular  traveler  who  would 
make  a  book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disappointment  with 
an  unlucky  landscape-painter,  who  had  traveled  on  the  Con- 
tinent, but,  following  the  bent  of  his  vagrant  inclination,  had 
sketched  in  nooks,  and  corners,  and  by-places.  His  sketch- 
book was  accordingly  crowded  with  cottages,  and  landscapes, 
and  obscure  ruins;  but  he  had  neglected  to  paint  St.  Peter's 
or  the  Coliseum ;  the  cascade  of  Terni,  or  the  Bay  of  Naples ; 
and  had  not  a  single  glacier  or  volcano  in  his  whole  collection. 


THE   SKETCH=BOOK 


THE    VOYAGE 

"Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 
I  will  come  and  try  you, 
What  are  you  protecting, 
And  projecting, 

"What's  your  end  and  aim. 
One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading, 
Hallo!  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go?"—  OLD  POEM 

To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has 
to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  temporary  absence 
of  worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state  of  mind 
peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impressions.  The 
vast  space  of  waters  that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like 
a  blank  page  in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition  by 
which,  as  in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  of  one  coun- 
try blend  almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of  another.  From 
the  moment  you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you  have  left  all  is 
vacancy  until  you  step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are  launched 
at  once  into  the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another  world. 

In  traveling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene  and  a 
connected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents  that  carry  on 
the  story  of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and  separa- 
tion. We  drag,  it  is  true,  "a  lengthening  chain"  at  each 
remove  of  our  pilgrimage;  but  the  chain  is  unbroken;  we 
can  trace  it  back  link  by  link;  and  we  feel  that  the  last  of 

(57) 


58  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)$toi} 

them  still  grapples  us  to  home.  But  a  wide  sea  voyage 
severs  us  at  once.  It  makes  us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose 
from  the  secure  anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent  adrift 
upon  a  doubtful  world.  It  interposes  a  gulf,  not  merely 
imaginary,  but  real,  between  us  and  our  homes — a  gulf,  sub- 
ject to  tempest,  and  fear,  and  uncertainty,  that  makes  dis- 
tance palpable,  and  return  precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw  the 
last  blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in 
the  horizon,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the 
world  and  its  concerns,  and  had  time  for  meditation,  before 
I  opened  another.  That  land,  too,  now  vanishing  from  my 
'view,  which  contained  all  that  was  most  dear  to  me  in  lif e ; 
what  vicissitudes  might  occur  in  it — what  changes  might 
take  place  in  me,  before  I  should  visit  it  again !  Who  can 
tell,  when  he  sets  forth  to  wander,  whither  he  may  be  driven 
by  the  uncertain  currents  of  existence ;  or  when  he  may  re- 
turn ;  or  whether  it  may  be  ever  his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood? 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy ;  I  should  correct  the  ex- 
pression. To  one  given  to  day  dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing 
himself  in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  medi- 
tation ;  but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep  and  of  the 
air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly 
•  themes.  I  delighted  to  loll  over  the  quarter-railing  or  climb 
to  the  maintop,  of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours  together 
on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea;  to  gaze  upon  the 
piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon ;  fancy 
them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a  creation  of 
my  own;  to  watch  the  gentle  undulating  billows,  rolling 
their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and 
awe  with  which  I  looked  down,  from  my  giddy  height,  on 
the  monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols :  shoals  of 
porpoises  tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship ;  the  grampus, 
slQwly  heaving  his  huge  form  above  the  surface ;  or  the  rav- 
enous shark,  darting,  like  a  specter,  through  the  blue  waters. 


59 

My  imagination  would  conjure  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or 
read  of  the  watery  world  beneath  me :  of  the  finny  herds  that 
roam  its  fathomless  valleys;  of  the  shapeless  monsters  that 
lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  of  those 
wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the 
ocean,  would  be  another  therne  of  idle  speculation.  How 
interesting  this  fragment  of  a  world  hastening  to  rejoin  the 
great  mass  of  existence!  What  a  glorious  monument  of 
human  invention ;  that  has  thus  triumphed  over  wind  and 
wave ;  has  brought  the  ends  of  the  world  into  communion ; 
has  established  an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  intolne 
sterile  regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south ;  has 
diffused  the  light  of  knowledge,  and  the  charities  of  culti- 
vated lif  e ;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those  scattered  por- 
tions of  the  human  race  between  which  nature  seemed  to 
have  thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a 
distance.  At  sea,  everything  that  breaks  the  monotony  of 
the  surrounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved  to  be 
the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely  wrecked; 
for  there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which  some 
of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar  to  prevent 
their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was  no  trace 
by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained.  The 
wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many  months;  clusters 
of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  long  sea- weeds  flaunted 
at  ;.cs  sides.  But  where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew?  Their 
struggle  has  long  been  over— they  have  gone  down  amid  the 
roar  of  the  tempest — their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the 
caverns  of  the  deep.  Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have 
closed  over  them,  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end.- 
What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that  ship ;  what  prayers 
offered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home !  How  often  has 
the  mistress,  the  wife,  the  mother,  pored  over  the  daily  news, 
to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of  this  rover  of  the  deep ! 
How  has  expectation  darkened  into  anxiety — anxiety  into 


60  UYorKs  of  U/asl?ir}$toi7  Iruir;$ 

dread — and  dread  into  despair!  Alas!  not  one  memento 
shall  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All  that  shall  ever 
be  kno^  n,  is,  that  she  sailed  from  her  port,  "and  was  never 
heard  of  more!" 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many  dis- 
mal anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  even- 
ing, when  the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began 
to  look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one  of 
those  sudden  storms  that  will  sometimes  break  in  upon  the 
serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.  As  we  sat  round  the  dull 
light  of  a  lamp,  in  the  cabin,  that  made  the  gloom  more 
ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  I 
was  particularly  struck  with  a  short  one  related  by  the  cap- 
tain: 

"As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "in  a  fine,  stout  ship, 
across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy  fogs 
that  prevail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to  see 
far  ahead,  even  in  the  daytime;  but  at  night  the  weather 
was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at 
twice  the  length  of  the  ship.  I  kept  lights  at  the  masthead, 
and  a  constant  watch  forward  to  look  out  for  fishing  smacks, 
which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The 
wind  was  blowing  a  smacking  breeze,  and  we  were  going  at 
a  great  rate  through  the  water.  Suddenly  the  watch  gave 
the  alarm  of  'a  sail  ahead!' — it  was  scarcely  uttered  before 
we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a  small  schooner,  at  anchor, 
with  a  broadside  toward  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep,  and 
had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light.  We  struck  her  just  amid- 
ships. The  force,  the  size,  the  weight  of  our  vessel,  bore 
her  down  below  the  waves;  we  passed  over  her  and  were 
hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crashing  wreck  was  sinking 
beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half-naked 
wretches,  rushing  from  her  cabin;  they  just  started  from 
their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking  by  the  waves.  I  heard 
their  drowning  cry  mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  th*** 
bore  it  to  our  ears  swept  us  out  of  all  further  hearing.  I 
shall  never  forget  that  cry !  It  was  some  time  before  Ve 


61 

could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was  under  such  headway.  We 
returned  as  nearly  as  we  could  guess  to  the  place  where  the 
smack  had  anchored.  We  cruised  about  for  seveTjal  hours 
in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired  signal-guns,  and  listened  if  we 
might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors;  but  all  was  silent — 
we  never  saw  or  heard  anything  of  them  more." 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all  my 
fine  fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The  sea 
was  lashed  into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a  fearful, 
sullen  sound  of  rushing  waves  and  broken  surges.  Deep 
called  unto  deep.  At  times  the  black  volume  of  clouds  over- 
head seemed  rent  asunder  by  flashes  of  lightning  that  quiv- 
ered along  the  foaming  billows,  and  made  the  succeeding 
darkness  doubly  terrible.  The  thunders  bellowed  over  the 
wild  waste  of  waters,  and  were  echoed  and  prolonged  by  the 
mountain  waves.  As  I  saw  the  ship  staggering  and  plung- 
ing among  these  roaring  caverns  it  seemed  miraculous  that 
she  regained  her  balance,  or  preserved  her  buoyancy.  Her 
yards  would  dip  into  the  water;  her  bow  was  almost  buried 
beneath  the  waves.  Sometimes  an  impending  surge  appeared 
ready  to  overwhelm  her,  and  nothing  but  a  dexterous  move- 
ment of  the  helm  preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still  followed 
me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging  sounded 
like  funereal  wailings.  The  creaking  of  the  masts;  the 
straining  and  groaning  of  bulkheads,  as  the  ship  labored 
in  the  weltering  sea,  were  frightful.  As  I  heard  the  waves 
rushing  along  the  side  of  the  ship,  and  roaring  in  my  very 
ear,  it  seemed  as  if  Death  were  raging  round  this  floating 
prison,  seeking  for  his  prey :  the  mere  starting  of  a  nail,  the 
yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give"  him  entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favoring 
breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  It  is 
impossible  to  resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fine  weather 
and  fair  wind  at  sea.  When  the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her 
canvas,  every  sail  swelled,  and  careering  gayly  over  the  curl- 
ing waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant,  she  appears — how  she 


62  ll/or^s  of  U/asl?ip<$top  Iruii?<? 

seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep !  I  might  fill  a  volume  with 
the  reveries  of  a  sea  voyage ;  for  with  me  it  is  almost  a  con- 
tinual reverie — but  it  is  tune  to  get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of 
"land!"  was  given  from  the  masthead.  None  but  those 
who  have  experienced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  delicious 
throng  of  sensations  which  rush  into  an  American's  bosom 
when  he  first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a  volume 
of  associations  with  the  very  name.  It  is  the  land  of  prom- 
ise, teeming  with  everything  of  which  his  childhood  has 
heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  years  have  pondered. 

From  that  time,  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all 
feverish  excitement.  The  ships  of  war  that  prowled  like 
guardian  giants  along  the  coast ;  the  headlands  of  Ireland, 
stretching  out  into  the  channel ;  the  Welsh  mountains,  tower- 
ing into  the  clouds ;  all  were  objects  of  intense  interest.  As 
we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitered  the  shores  with  a 
telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on  neat  cottages,  with 
their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass-plots.  I  saw  the^ 
mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the  taper 
spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the  brow  of  a  neighbor- 
ing hill — all  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that  the  ship  was 
enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged  with 
people;  some  idle  lookers-on,  others  eager  expectants  of 
friends  or  relatives.  I  could  distinguish  the  merchant  to 
whom  the  ship  was  consigned.  I  knew  him  by  his  calcu- 
lating brow  and  restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  his 
pockets ;  he  was  whistling  thoughtfully,  and  walking  to  and 
fro,  a  small  space  having  been  accorded  him  by  the  crowd, 
in  deference  to  his  temporary  importance.  There  were  re- 
peated cheerings  and  salutations  interchanged  between  the 
shore  and  the  ship,  as  friends  happened  to  recognize  each 
other.  I  particularly  noticed  one  young  woman  of  humble 
dress,  but  interesting  demeanor.  She  was  leaning  forward 
from  among  the  crowd;  her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it 
neared  the  shore,  to  catch  some  wished-for  countenance.  She 


63 

seemed  disappointed  and  agitated;  when  I  heard  a  faint 
voice  call  her  name. — It  was  from  a  poor  sailor  who  had 
been  ill  all  the  voyage,  and  had  excited  the  synipathy  of 
every  one  on  board.  When  the  weather  was  fine,  his  mess- 
mates had  spread  a  mattress  for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade, 
but  of  late  his  illness  had  so  increased  that  he  had  taken  to 
his  hammock,  and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see 
his  wife  before  he  died.  He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as  we 
came  up  the  river,  and  was  now  leaning  against  the  shrouds, 
with  a  countenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly,  that  it 
was  no  wonder  even  the  eye  of  affection  did  not  recognize 
him.  But  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on  his 
features;  it  read,  at  once,  a  whole  volume  of  sorrow;  she 
clasped  her  hands,  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  stood  wringing 
them  in  silent  agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of  ac- 
quaintances— the  greetings  of  friends — the  consultations  of 
men  of  business.  I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no 
.friend  to  meet,  no  cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped  upon  the 
land  of  my  forefathers — but  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger  in 
the  land. 


ROSCOE 

" — In  the  service  of  mankind  to  be 
A  guardian  god  below ;  still  to  employ 
The  mind's  brave  ardor  in  heroic  aims, 
Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  groveling  herd, 
And  make  us  shine  for  ever — that  is  life." — THOMSON 

ONE  of  the  first  places  to  which  a  stranger  is  taken  in  ( 
Liverpool  is  the  Athenaeum.  It  is  established  on  a  liberal 
and  judicious  plan ;  it  contains  a  good  library,  and  spacious 
reading-room,  and  is  the  great  literary  resort  of  the  place. 
Go  there  at  what  hour  you  may,  you  are  sure  to  find  it  filled 
with  grave-looking  personages,  deeply  absored  in  the  study 
of  newspapers. 


64  U/orl^s  of  U/asbii?$top  Iruii)«$ 

As  I  was  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned  my  at- 
tention was  attracted  to  a  person  just  entering  the  room.  He 
was  advanced  in  life,  tall,  and  of  a  form  that  might  once 
have  been  commanding,  but  it  was  a  little  bowed  by  time— 
perhaps  by  care.  He  had  a  noble  Roman  style  of  counte- 
nance ;  a  head  that  would  have  pleased  a  painter ;  and  though 
some  slight  furrows  on  his  brow  showed  that  wasting  thought 
had  been  busy  there,  yet  his  eye  still  beamed  with  the  fire  of 
a  poetic  soul.  There  was  something  in  his  whole  appearance 
that  indicated  a  being  of  a  different  order  from  the  bustling 
race  around  him. 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it  was  Roscoe. 
I  drew  back  with  an  involuntary  feeling  of  veneration.  This, 
then,  was  an  author  of  celebrity ;  this  was  one  of  those  men 
whose  voices  have  gone  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ;  with 
whose  minds  I  have  communed  even  in  the  solitudes  of 
America.  Accustomed,  as  we  are  in  our  country,  to  know 
European  writers  only  by  their  works,  we  cannot  conceive 
of  them,  as  of  other  men,  engrossed  by  trivial  or  sordid  pur- 
suits, and  jostling  with  the  crowd  of  common  minds  in  the 
dusty  paths  of  life.  They  pass  before  our  imaginations  like 
superior  beings,  radiant  with  the  emanations  of  their  own 
genius,  and  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the  Medici 
mingling  among  the  busy  sons  of  traffic,  at  first  shocked  my 
poetical  ideas ;  but  it  is  from  the  very  circumstances  and  situ- 
ation in  which  he  has  been  placed  that  Mr.  Roscoe  derives 
his  highest  claims  to  admiration.  It  is  interesting  to  notice 
how  some  minds  seem  almost  to  create  themselves ;  spring- 
ing up  under  every  disadvantage,  and  working  their  solitary 
but  irresistible  way  through  a  thousand  obstacles.  Nature 
seems  to  delight  in  disappointing  the  assiduities  of  art,  with 
which  it  would  rear  legitimate  dullness  to  maturity ;  and  to 
glory  in  the  vigor  and  luxuriance  of  her  chance  productions. 
She  scatters  the  seeds  of  genius  to  the  winds,  and  though 
some  may  perish  among  the  stony  places  of  the  world,  and 
some  be  choked  by  the  thorns  and  brambles  of  early  advers- 


Jt?e 

ity,  yet  others  will  now  and  then  strike  root  even  in  the  clefts 
of  the  rock,  struggle  bravely  up  into  sunshine,  and  spread 
over  their  sterile  birthplace  all  the  beauties  of  vegetation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Roscoe.  Born  in  a  place 
apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth  of  literary  talent ;  in  the 
very  market-place  of  trade ;  without  fortune,  family  connec- 
tions, or  patronage ;  self- prompted,  self-sustained,  and  almost 
self-taught,  he  has  conquered  every  obstacle,  achieved  his 
way  to  eminence,  and,  having  become  one  of  the  ornaments 
of  the  nation,  has  turned  the  whole  force  of  his  talents  and 
influence  to  advance  and  embellish  his  native  town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character  which  has  given 
him  the  greatest  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  induced  me  particu- 
larly to  point  him  out  to  my  countrymen.  Eminent  as  are 
his  literary  merits,  he  is  but  one  among  the  many  distin- 
guished authors  of  this  intellectual  nation.  They,  however, 
in  general,  live  but  for  their  own  fame,  or  their  own  pleas- 
ures. Their  private  history  presents  no  lesson  to  the  world, 
or,  perhaps,  a  humiliating  one  of  human  frailty  and  incon- 
sistency. At  best,  they  are  prone  to  steal  away  from  the 
bustle  and  commonplace  of  busy  existence ;  to  indulge  in  the 
selfishness  of  lettered  ease ;  and  to  revel  in  scenes  of  mental, 
but  exclusive  enjoyment. 

Mr.  Roscoe,  on  the  contrary,  has  claimed  none  of  the  ac- 
corded privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut  himself  up  in  no 
garden  of  thought,  nor  elysium  of  fancy ;  but  has  gone  forth 
into  the  highways  and  thoroughfares  of  life,  he  has  planted 
bowers  by  the  wayside,  for  the  refreshment  of  the  pilgrim 
and  the  sojourner,  and  has  opened  pure  fountains,  where  the 
laboring  man  may  turn  aside  from  the  dust  and  heat  of  the 
day,  and  drink  of  the  living  streams  of  knowledge.  There 
is  a  "daily  beauty  in  his  life,"  on  which  mankind  may  medi- 
tate, and  grow  better.  It  exhibits  no  lofty  and  almost  use- 
less, because  inimitable,  example  of  excellence;  but  presents 
a  picture  of  active,  yet  simple  and  imitable  virtues,  which 
are  within  every  man's  reach,  but  which,  unfortunately,  are 
not  exercised  by  many,  or  this  world  would  be  a  paradise. 


66  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ir>$tor>  Irving 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarly  worthy  the  attention  of 
the  citizens  of  our  young  and  busy  country,  where  literature 
and  the  elegant  arts  must  grow  up  side  by  side  with  the 
coarser  plants  of  daily  necessity ;  and  must  depend  for  their 
culture,  not  on  the  exclusive  devotion  of  time  and  wealth, 
nor  the  quickening  rays  of  titled  patronage,  but  on  hours  and 
seasons  snatched  from  the  pursuit  of  worldly  interests  by 
intelligent  and  public-spirited  individuals. 

He  has  shown  how  much  may  be  done  for  a  place  in  hours 
of  leisure  by  one  master  spirit,  and  how  completely  it  can 
give  its  own  impress  to  surrounding  objects.  Like  his  own 
Lorenzo  de  Medici,  on  whom  he  seems  to  have  fixed  his  eye, 
as  on  a  pure  model  of  antiquity,  he  has  interwoven  the  his- 
tory of  his  life  with  the  history  of  his  native  town,  and  has 
made  the  foundations  of  its  fame  the  monuments  of  his 
virtues.  Wherever  you  go,  in  Liverpool,  you  perceive  traces 
of  his  footsteps  in  all  that  is  elegant  and  liberal.  He  found 
the  tide  of  wealth  flowing  merely  in  the  channels  of  traffic ; 
he  has  diverted  from  it  invigorating  rills  to  refresh  the  gar- 
dens of  literature.  By  his  own  example  and  constant  exer- 
tions he  has  effected  that  union  of  commerce  and  the  intel- 
lectual pursuits,  so  eloquently  recommended  in  one  of  his 
latest  writings;*  and  has  practically  proved  how  beautifully 
they  may  be  brought  to  harmonize,  and  to  benefit  each  other. 
The  noble  institutions  for  literary  and  scientific  purposes, 
which  reflect  such  credit  on  Liverpool,  and  are  giving  such 
an  impulse  to  the  public  mind,  have  most  been  originated, 
and  have  all  been  effectively  promoted,  by  Mr.  Roscoe :  and 
when  we  consider  the  rapidly  increasing  opulence  and  mag- 
nitude of  that  town,  which  promises  to  vie  hi  commercial  im- 
portance with  the  metropolis,  it  will  be  perceived  that  in 
awakening  an  ambition  of  mental  improvement  among  its 
inhabitants  he  has  effected  a  great  benefit  to  the  cause  of 
British  literature. 

In  America,  we  know  Mr.  Roscoe  only  as  the  author — in 

*  Address  on  the  opening  of  the  Liverpool  Institution. 


67 

Liverpool,  he  is  spoken  of  as  the  banker;  and  I  was  told  of 
his  having  been  unfortunate  in  business.  I  could  not  pity 
him,  as  I  heard  some  rich  men  do.  I  considered  him  far 
above  the  reach  of  my  pity.  Those  who  live  only  for  the 
world,  and  in  the  world,  may  be  cast  down  by  the  frowns  of 
adversity;  but  a  man  like  Roscoe  is  not  to  be  overcome  by 
the  reverses  of  fortune.  They  do  but  drive  him  in  upon  the 
resources  of  his  own  mind;  to  the  superior  society  of  his  own 
thoughts;  which  the  best  of  men  are  apt  sometimes  to  neg- 
lect, and  to  roam  abroad  in  search  of  less  worthy  associates. 
He  is  independent  of  the  world  around  him.  He  lives  with 
antiquity,  and  with  posterity :  with  antiquity,  in  the  sweet 
communion  of  studious  retirement;  and  with  posterity,  in 
the  generous  aspirings  after  future  renown.  The  solitude  of 
such  a  mind  is  its  state  of  highest  enjoyment.  It  is  then 
visited  by  those  elevated  meditations  which  are  the  proper 
aliment  of  noble  souls,  and  are,  like  manna,  sent  from  heaven, 
in  the  wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject,  it  was 
my  fortune  to  light  on  further  traces  of  Mr.  Roscoe.  I  was 
riding  out  with  a  gentleman,  to  view  the  environs  of  Liver- 
pool, when  he  turned  off,  through  a  gate,  into  some  orna- 
mented grounds.  After  riding  a  short  distance,  we  came  to 
a  spacious  mansion  of  freestone,  built  in  the  Grecian  style. 
It  was  not  in  the  purest  taste,  yet  it  had  an  air  of  elegance, 
and  the  situation  was  delightful.  A  fine  lawn  sloped  away 
from  it,  studded  with  clumps  of  trees,  so  disposed  as  to  break 
a  soft  fertile  country  into  a  variety  of  landscapes.  The  Mer- 
sey was  seen  winding  a  broad  quiet  sheet  of  water  through 
an  expanse  of  green  meadow  land;  while  the  Welsh  moun- 
tains, blending  with  clouds,  and  melting  into  distance,  bor- 
dered the  horizon. 

This  was  Roscoe 's  favorite  residence  during  the  days  of 
his  prosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  elegant  hospitality 
and  literary  refinement.  The  house  was  now  silent  and  de- 
serted. I  saw  the  windows  of  the  study,  which  looked  out 
upon  the  soft  scenery  I  have  mentioned.  The  windows  were 


of  U/asl?ii)$toi)  Iruii}<? 

closed — the  library  was  gone.  Two  or  three  ill-favored  beings 
were  loitering  about  the  place,  whom  my  fancy  pictured  into 
retainers  of  the  law.  It  was  like  visiting  some  classic  foun- 
tain that  had  once  welled  its  pure  waters  in  a  sacred  shade, 
but  finding  it  dry  and  dusty  with  the  lizard  and  the  toad 
brooding  over  the  shattered  marbles. 

I  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  library,  which 
had  consisted  of  scarce  and  foreign  books,  from  many  of 
which  he  had  drawn  the  materials  for  his  Italian  histories. 
It  had  passed  under  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer,  and  was 
dispersed  about  the  country. 

The  good  people  of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers  to 
get  some  part  of  the  noble  vessel  that  had  been  driven  on 
shore.  '  Did  such  a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous  associations,  we 
might  imagine  something  whimsical  in  this  strange  irruption 
into  the  regions  of  learning.  Pigmies  rummaging  the  armory 
of  a  giant,  and  contending  for  the  possession  of  weapons 
which  they  could  not  wield.  We  might  picture  to  ourselves 
some  knot  of  speculators  debating  with  calculating  brow  over 
the  quaint  binding  and  illuminated  margin  of  an  obsolete 
author;  or  the  air  of  intense,  but  baffled  sagacity,  with 
which  some  successful  purchaser  attempted  to  dive  into  the 
black-letter  bargain  he  had  secured. 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  mis- 
fortunes, and  one  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  studious 
mind,  that  the  parting  with  his  books  seems  to  have  touched 
upon  his  tenderest  feelings,  and  to  have  been  the  only  cir- 
cumstance that  could  provoke  the  notice  of  his  muse.  The 
scholar  only  knows  how  dear  these  silent,  yet  eloquent,  com- 
panions of  pure  thoughts  and  innocent  hours  become  in  the 
season  of  adversity.  When  all  that  is  worldly  turns  to  dross 
around  us,  these  only  retain  their  steady  value.  When 
friends  grow  cold,  and  the  converse  of  intimates  languishes 
into  vapid  civility  and  commonplace,  these  only  continue  the 
unaltered  countenance  of  happier  days,  and  cheer  us  with 
that  true  friendship  which  never  deceived  hope,  nor  deserted 
sorrow. 


Sketel?-BooK 


I  do  not  wish  to  censure;  but,  surely,  if  the  people  of 
Liverpool  had  been  properly  sensible  of  what  was  due  to 
Mr.  Roscoe  and  to  themselves,  his  library  would  never  have 
been  sold. 

Good  worldly  reasons  may,  doubtless,  be  given  for  the 
circumstance,  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  combat  with 
others  that  might  seem  merely  fanciful;  but  it  certainly 
appears  to  me  such  an  opportunity  as  seldom  occurs,  of 
cheering  a  noble  mind  struggling  under  misfortunes  by 
one  of  the  most  delicate,  but  most  expressive  tokens  of 
public  sympathy.  It  is  difficult,  however,  to  estimate  a 
man  of  genius  properly  who  is  daily  before  our  eyes.  He 
becomes  mingled  and  confounded  with  other  men.  His 
great  qualities  lose  their  novelty,  and  we  become  too  famil- 
iar with  the  common  materials  which  form  the  basis  even  of 
the  loftiest  character.  Some  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  townsmen  may 
regard  him  merely  as  a  man  of  business;  others  as  a  politi- 
cian ;  all  find  him  engaged  like  themselves  in  ordinary  occu- 
pations, and  surpassed,  perhaps,  by  themselves  on  some 
points  of  worldly  wisdom.  Even  that  amiable  and  unos- 
tentatious simplicity  of  character,  which  gives  the  name  less 
grace  to  real  excellence,  may  cause  him  to  be  undervalued 
by  some  coarse  minds,  who  do  not  know  that  true  worth  is 
always  void  of  glare  and  pretension.  But  the  man  of  letters 
who  speaks  of  Liverpool,  speaks  of  it  as  the  residence  of  Bos- 
coe.  —  The  intelligent  traveler  who  visits  it,  inquires  where 
Roscoe  is  to  be  seen.  —  He  is  the  literary  landmark  of  the 
place,  indicating  its  existence  to  the  distant  scholar.  —  He  is 
like  Pompey's  column  at  Alexandria,  towering  alone  in 
classic  dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Roscoe  to  his 
books  on  parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to  in  the  preceding 
article.  If  anything  can  add  effect  to  the  pure  feeling 
and  elevated  thought  here  displayed,  it  is  the  conviction  that 
the  whole  is  no  effusion  of  fancy,  but  a  faithful  transcript 
from  the  writer's  heart  : 


70  U/orKs  of  U/asl?iD$toi? 

TO  MY  BOOKS. 

"As  one,  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  ere  while 
To  share  their  converse,  and  enjoy  their  smile, 
And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affliction's  dart ; 

"Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 

Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 
I  now  resign  you ;  nor  with  fainting  heart ; 

"For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 

And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore ; 
When  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 

Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more." 


THE    WIFE 

"The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love.    I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth — 
The  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter!"— MIDDLE-TON 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude  with 
which  women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming  reverses  of 
fortune.  Those  disasters  which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a 
man,  and  prostrate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the 
energies  of  the  softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and  ele- 
vation to  their  character  that  at  times  it  approaches  to  sub- 
limity. Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  to  behold  a  soft 
and  tender  female,  who  had  been  all  weakness  and  depend- 
ence, and  alive  to  every  trivial  roughness,  while  threading 
the  prosperous  paths  of  life,  suddenly  rising  in  mental  force 
to  be  the  comforter  and  supporter  of  her  husband  under  mis- 


Jf?e  SKeteb-Book  71 

fortune,  and  abiding,  with  unshrinking  firmness,  the  bitterest 
blasts  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage 
about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when 
the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round  it 
with  its  caressing  tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs ; 
so  is  it  beautifully  ordered  by  Providence  that  woman,  who 
is  the  mere  dependent  and  ornament  of  man  in  his  happier 
hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smitten  with  sud- 
den calamity ;  winding  herself  into  the  rugged  recesses  of  his 
nature,  tenderly  supporting  the  drooping  head,  and  binding 
up  the  broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around  him 
a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest  affection. 
"I  can  wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm, 
"than  to  have  a  wife  and  children.  If  you  are  prosperous, 
there  they  are  to  share  your  prosperity ;  if  otherwise,  there 
they  are  to  comfort  you."  And,  indeed,  I  have  observed 
that  a  married  man  falling  into  misfortune  is  more  apt  to 
retrieve  his  situation  in  the  world  than  a  single  one;  partly, 
because  he  is  more  stimulated  to  exertion  by  the  necessities 
of  the  helpless  and  beloved  beings  who  depend  upon  him  for 
subsistence ;  but  chiefly,  because  his  spirits  are  soothed  and 
relieved  by  domestic  endearments,  and  his  self-respect  kept 
alive  by  finding  that  though  all  abroad  is  darkness  and  hu- 
miliation, yet  there  is  still  a  little  world  of  love  at  home,  of 
which  he  is  the  monarch.  Whereas,  a  single  man  is  apt  to 
run  to  waste  and  self -neglect ;  to  fancy  himself  lonely  and 
abandoned,  and  his  heart  to  fall  to  rum,  like  some  deserted 
mansion,  for  want  of  an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  story  of 
which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate  friend,  Leslie,  had 
married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life.  She  had,  it  is 
true,  no  fortune,  but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample ;  and  he 
delighted  in  the  anticipation  of  indulging  her  in  every  ele- 
gant pursuit,  and  administering  to  those  delicate  tastes  and 


72  Works  of  U/asl?ii}$toi) 

fancies  that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery  about  the  sex. — "Her 
life,"  said  he,  "shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  a  harmo- 
nious combination ;  he  was  of  a  romantic  and  somewhat  seri- 
ous cast ;  she  was  all  life  and  gladness.  I  have  often  noticed 
the  mute  rapture  with  which  he  would  gaze  upon  her  in  com- 
pany, of  which  her  sprightly  powers  made  her  the  delight; 
and  how,  in  the  midst  of  applause,  her  eye  would  still  turn 
to  him,  as  if  there  alone  she  sought  favor  and  acceptance. 
When  leaning  on  his  arm,  her  slender  form  contrasted  finely 
with  his  tall,  manly  person.  The  fond  confiding  air  with 
which  she  looked  up  to  him  seemed  to  call  forth  a  flush  of 
triumphant  pride  and  cherishing  tenderness,  as  if  he  doted 
on  his  lovely  burden  for  its  very  helplessness.  Never  did  a 
couple  set  forward  on  the  flowery  path  of  early  and  well- 
suited  marriage  with  a  fairer  prospect  of  felicity. 
/  It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have  em- 
•'  barked  his  property  in  large  speculations;  and  he  had  not 
been  married  many  months,  when,  by  a  succession  of  sudden 
disasters  it  was  swept  from  him,  and  he  found  himself  re- 
duced to  almost  penury.  For  a  time  he  kept  his  situation  to 
himself,  and  went  about  with  a  haggard  countenance  and  a 
breaking  heart.  His  life  was  but  a  protracted  agony ;  and 
what  rendered  it  more  insupportable  was  the  necessity  of 
keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  presence  of  his  wife ;  for  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm  her  with  the  news.  She 
saw,  however,  with  the  quick  eyes  of  affection,  that  all  was 
not  well  with  him.  She  marked  his  altered  looks  and  stifled 
sighs,  and  was  not  to  be  deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid  at- 
tempts at  cheerfulness.  She  tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers 
and  tender  blandishments  to  win  him  back  to  happiness;  but 
she  only  drove  the  arrow  deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he 
saw  cause  to  love  her,  the  more  torturing  was  the  thought 
that  he  was  soon  to  make  her  wretched.  A  little  while, 
thought  he,  and  the  smile  will  vanish  from  that  cheek— the 
song  will  die  away  from  those  lips — the  luster  of  those  eyes 
will  be  quenched  with  sorrow — and  the  happy  heart  which 


73 

now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom  will  be  weighed  down,  like 
mine,  by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  related  his  whole 
situation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  When  I  had  heard 
him  through,  I  inquired,  "Does  your  wife  know  all  this?" 
At  the  question  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  "For  God's 
sake!"  cried  he,  "if  you  have  any  pity  on  me,  don't  mention 
my  wife ;  it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives  me  almost  to 
madness!" 

"And  why  not?"  said  I.  "She  must  know  it  sooner  or  x 
later;  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intelligence 
may  break  upon  her  in  a  more  startling  manner  than  if  im- 
parted by  yourself;  for  the  accents  of  those  we  love  soften 
the  harshest  tidings.  Besides,  you  are  depriving  yourself  of 
the  comforts  of  her  sympathy;  and  not  merely  that,  but  also 
endangering  the  only  bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together — 
an  unreserved  community  of  thought  and  feeling.  She  will 
soon  perceive  that  something  is  secretly  preying  upon  your 
mind ;  and  true  love  will  not  brook  reserve :  it  feels  under- 
valued and  outraged,  when  even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves 
are  concealed  from  it."  vV 

"Oh,  but  my  friend!  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give 
to  all  her  future  prospects— how  I  am  to  strike  her  very  soul 
to  the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a  beggar! — 
that  she  is  to  forego  all  the  elegancies  of  life — all  the  pleas- 
ures of  society — to  shrink  with  me  into  indigence  and  obscur- 
ity !  To  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her  down  from  the 
sphere  in  which  she  might  have  continued  to  move  in  con- 
stant brightness — the  light  of  every  eye — the  admiration  of 
every  heart! — How  can  she  bear  poverty?  She  has  been 
brought  up  in  all  the  refinements  of  opulence.  How  can 
she  bear  neglect?  She  has  been  the  idol  of  society.  Oh,  it 
will  break  her  heart — it  will  break  her  heart!" 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I'  let  it  have  its  flow; 
for  sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.  When  his  paroxysm  had 
subsided,  and  he  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I  resumed 
the  subject  gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his  situation  at 
*  *  *4  VOL.  I. 


of 

once  to  his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  posi- 
tively. 

"But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her?  It  is  necessary 
she  should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps  proper  to  the 
alteration  of  your  circumstances.  You  must  change  your 
style  of  living— nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his 
countenance,  "don't  let  that  afflict  you.  I  am  sure  you  have 
never  placed  your  happiness  in  outward  show — you  have  yet 
friends,  warm  friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you 
for  being  less  splendidly  lodged ;  and  surely  it  does  not  re- 
quire a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary — " — "I  could  be  happy 
with  her,"  cried  he,  convulsively,  "in  a  hovel! — I  could  go 
down  with  her  into  poverty  and  the  dust ! — I  could — I  could 
— God  bless  her! — God  bless  her!"  cried  he,  bursting  into  a 
transport  of  grief  and  tenderness. 

"And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up,  and 
grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "believe  me,  she  can  be 
the  same  with  you.  Ay,  more;  it  will  be  a  source  of  pride 
and  triumph  to  her — it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies 
and  fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature ;  for  she  will  rejoice  to 
v  prove  that  she  loves  you  for  yourself.  There  is  in  every  true 
woman's  heart  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire,  which  lies  dormant 
in  the  broad  daylight  of  prosperity;  but  which  kindles  up, 
[  and  beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of  adversity.  No 
man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosom  is — no  man  knows 
what  a  ministering  angel  she  is— until  he  has  gone  with  her 
through  the  fiery  trials  of  this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manner, 
and  the  figurative  style  of  my  language,  that  caught  the  ex- 
cited imagination  of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I  had  to 
deal  with;  and  following  up  the  impression  I  had  made,  I 
finished  by  persuading  him  to  go  home  and  unburden  his  sad 
heart  to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said.  I  felt  Some 
little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can  calculate  on  the 
fortitude  of  one  whose  whole  life  has  been  a  round  of  pleas- 
ures? Her  gay  spirits  might  revolt  at  the  dark,  downward 


75 

path  of  low  humility,  suddenly  pointed  out  before  her,  and 
might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which  they  had  hitherto 
reveled.  Besides,  ruin  in  fashionable  life  is  accompanied  by 
so  many  galling  mortifications,  to  which,  in  other  ranks,  it  is 
a  stranger. — In  short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie,  the  next  morn- 
ing, without  trepidation.  He  had  made  the  disclosure. 

"And  how  did  she  bear  it?" 

"Like  an  angel!  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to 
mind,  for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  asked  if 
this  was  all  that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy. — But,  poor 
girl,"  added  he,  "she  cannot  realize  the  change  we  must  un- 
dergo. She  has  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract :  she 
has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love.  She 
feels  as  yet  no  privation :  she  suffers  no  loss  of  accustomed 
conveniences  nor  elegancies.  When  we  come  practically  to 
experience  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its  petty  humilia- 
tions— then  wiU  be  the  real  trial." 

"But,"  said  I,  "now  that  you  have  got  over  the  severest 
task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner  you  let  the  world 
into  the  secret  the  better.  The  disclosure  may  be  mortify- 
ing; but  then  it  is  a  single  misery,  and  soon  over;  whereaa 
you  otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the 
day.  It  is  not  poverty,  so  much  as  pretense,  that  harasses  a 
ruined  man — the  struggle  between  a  proud  mind  and  an  empty 
purse — the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon  come  to 
an  end.  Have  the  courage  to  appear  poor,  and  you  disarm 
poverty  of  its  sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  I  found  Leslie 
perfectly  prepared.  He  had  no  false  pride  himself,  and  as  to 
his  wife,  she  was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered 
fortunes. 

Some  days  afterward,  he  called  upon  me  in  the  evening. 
He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house,  and  taken  a  small 
cottage  in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town.  He  had 
been  busied  all  day  in  sending  out  furniture.  The  new  estab- 
lishment required  few  articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest  kind. 
All  the  splendid  furniture  of  his  late  residence  had  been  sold, 
excepting  his  wife's  harp.  That,  he  said,  was  too  closely  as- 


76  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$toi7  Iruir?$ 

sociated  with  the  idea  of  herself ;  it  belonged  to  the  little 
story  of  their  loves;  for  some  of  the  sweetest  moments  of 
their  courtship  were  those  when  he  had  leaned  over  that  in- 
strument, and  listened  to  the  melting  tones  of  her  voice.  I 
could  not  but  smile  at  this  instance  of  romantic  gallantry  in 
a  doting  husband.  , 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where  his  wife  had 
been  all  day,  superintending  its  arrangement.  My  feelings 
had  become  strongly  interested  in  the  progress  of  this  family 
story,  and  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accompany 
him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of"  the  day,  and  as  we 
walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

"Poor  Mary!"  at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  from 
his  lips. 

"And  what  of  her,"  asked  I,  "has  anything  happened  to 
her?" 

"What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "is  it  noth- 
ing to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation — to  be  caged  in  a 
miserable  cottage — to  be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the  menial 
concerns  of  her  wretched  habitation?" 

"Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change?" 

"Repined!  She  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and  good 
humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I  have  ever 
known  her;  she  has  been  to  me  all  love,  and  tenderness,  and 
comfort!" 

"Admirable  girl!"  exclaimed  I.  "You  call  yourself  poor, 
my  friend;  you  never  were  so  rich — you  never  knew  the 
boundless  treasures  of  excellence  you  possessed  in  that 
woman." 

"Oh!  but,  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottage 
were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable.  But  this  is 
her  first  day  of  real  experience ;  she  has  been  introduced  into 
an  humble  dwelling — she  has  been  employed  all  day  in  ar- 
ranging its  miserable  equipments — she  has  for  the  first  time 
known  the  fatigues  of  domestic  employment — she  has  for  the 
first  tune  looked  around  her  on  a  home  destitute  of  every- 


"p?e  SKetel?-BooK  77 

thing  elegant — almost  of  everything  convenient;  and  may 
now  Be  sitting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless,  brooding  over 
a  prospect  of  future  poverty." 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture  that  I 
could  not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road  up  a  narrow  lane,  so 
thickly  shaded  by  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a  complete  air  of 
seclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble 
enough  in  its  appearance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet ;  and  yet 
it  had  a  pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one 
end  with  a  profusion  of  foliage;  a  few  trees  threw  their 
branches  gracefully  over  it;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of 
flowers  tastefully  disposed  about  the  door,  and  on  the  grass- 
plot  in  front.  A  small  wicket-gate  opened  upon  a  footpath 
that  wound  through  some  shrubbery  to  the  door.  Just  as 
we  approached  we  heard  the  sound  of  music — Leslie  grasped 
my  arm ;  we  paused  and  listened.  It  was  Mary's  voice,  sing- 
ing, in  a  style  of  the  most  touching  simplicity,  a  little  air  of 
which  her  husband  was  peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped  for- 
ward to  hear  more  distinctly.  His  step  made  a  noise  on  the 
gravel-walk.  A  bright,  beautiful  face  glanced  out  at  the 
window,  and  vanished — a  light  footstep  was  heard — and 
Mary  came  tripping  forth  to  meet  us.  She  was  in  a  pretty 
rural  dress  of  white ;  a  few  wild  flowers  were  twisted  in  her 
fine  hair ;  a  fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek ;  her  whole  counte- 
nance beamed  with  smiles — I  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
lovely. 

"My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are 
come;  I  have  been  watching  and  watching  for  you;  and 
running  down  the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set 
out  a  table  under  a  beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage ;  and 
I've  been  gathering  some  of  the  most  delicious  strawberries, 
for  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them — and  we  have  such  excel- 
lent cream — and  everything  is  so  sweet  and  still  here. — Oh!" 
said  she,  putting  her  arm  within  his,  and  looking  up  brightly 
in  his  face,  "oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy!" 


78  U/orKs  of  U/asbJr>$tor> 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome. — He  caught  her  to  his  bosom 
— he  folded  his  arms  round  her — he  kissed  her  again  and 
again— he  could  not  speak,  but  the  tears  gushed  into  his 
eyes;  and  he  has  often  assured  me  that  though  the  world 
has  since  gone  prosperously  with  him,  and  his  life  has  indeed 
been  a  happy  one,  yet  never  has  he  experienced  a  moment  of 
more  exquisite  felicity. 


[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the 
late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York, 
who  was  very  curious,  in  the  Dutch  History  of  the  province, 
and  the  manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  set- 
tlers. His  historical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much 
among  books  as  among  men ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably 
scanty  on  his  favorite  topics;  whereas  he  found  the  old 
burghers,  and  still  more,  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary 
lore,  so  invaluable  to  true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he 
happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in 
its  low-roofed  farmhouse  under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he 
looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and 
studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the 
province  during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he 
published  some  years  since.  There  have  been  various  opin- 
ions as  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  it  is  not  a*  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief 
merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which,  indeed,  was  a  little 
questioned  on  its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been  com- 
pletely established ;  and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical 
collections  as  a  book  of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of 
his  work,  and,  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do 
much  harm  to  his  memory  to  say  that  his  time  might  have 
been  much  better  employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  how- 
ever, was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way ;  and  though  it 
did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his 
neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends  for  whom 
he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affection,  yet  his  errors  and 
follies  are  remembered  "more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"* 

*  Vide  the  excellent  discourse  of  G.  C.  Verplanck,  Esq.,  before  the 
New  York  Historical  Society. 


79 

and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  intended  to  injure 
or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by 
critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  among  many  folk,  whose  good 
opinion  is  well  worth  having ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit 
bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on 
their  new  year  cakes,  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for 
immortality  almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo 
medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing.] 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE 

A   POSTHUMOUS   WRITING   OF   DIEDRICH   KNICKERBOCKER 

."By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 
Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 
Until  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 
My  sepulchre—"  —CART-WRIGHT 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  re- 
member the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered 
branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away 
to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and 
lording  it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every  change  of 
season,  every  change  of  weather,  indeed  every  hour  of  the 
day,  produces  some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes 
of  these  mountains;  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the. good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled  they  are  .clothed  in  blue  and 
purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening 
sky;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  landscape  is  cloud- 
less, they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about  their  sum- 
mits, which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow 
and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village, 
whose  shingle  roofs  gleam  among  the  trees  just  where  the 


80  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)<$toi) 

blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of 
the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity, 
having  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the 
early  times  of  the  province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the 
government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in 
peace!),  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original 
settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small  yellow 
bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows  and 
gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and 
weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple, 
good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Kip  Van  Winkle.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gal- 
lantly in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  ac- 
companied him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He  inherited, 
however,  but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors. 
I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man ;  he 
was  moreover  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient  henpecked 
husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be  ow- 
ing that  meekness  of  spir it,  which  gained  him  such  universal 
popularity ;  for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and 
conciliating  abroad  who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews 
at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and 
malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation,  and  a 
curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for 
teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  ter- 
magant wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects,  be  considered 
a  tolerable  blessing;  and,  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice 
blessed. 

Certain  it  is  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable 
sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles,  and  never  failed, 
whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening 
gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The 
children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever 


81 

he  approached.  He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  play- 
things, taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told 
them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians.  When- 
ever he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was  surrounded 
by  a  troop  of  them  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his 
back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with  impunity; 
and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance ;  for  he  would  sit 
on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's 
lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he 
should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would 
carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder,  for  hours  together, 
trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down 
dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would  | 
never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the  roughest  toil, 
and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking 
Indian  corn,  or  building  stone  fences.  The  women  of  the 
village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and  to 
do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would 
not  do  for  them — in  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  any- ' 
body's  business  but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty, 
and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm ; 
it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole 
country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go 
wrong  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling 
to  pieces ;  his  cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the 
cabbages ;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than1 
anywhere  else ;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in 
just  as  he  had  some  outdoor  work  to  do;  so  that,  though  his 
patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his  manage- 
ment, acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more  left  than  a 
mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the  worst 
conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 


82  U/orks  of  U/asbJo$tqi) 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his 
own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old 
clothes  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a 
colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's 
cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up 
with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mor- 
tals, of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world 
easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with 
least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny 
than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have 
whistled  life  away,  in  perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife  kept 
continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  care- 
lessness, and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly 
going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a 
torrent  of  household- eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  re- 
plying to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use, 
had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook 
his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however, 
always  provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife,  so  that  he  was 
fain  to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the 
house — the  only  side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked 
husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was 
as  much  henpecked  as  his  master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle 
regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked 
upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's 
going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befit- 
ting an  honorable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  as 
ever  scoured  the  woods — but  what  courage  can  withstand 
the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's 
tongue?  The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house,  his  crest 
fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his 
legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a 
sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least  flour- 


83 

ish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with 
yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Kip  Van  Winkle,  as 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on :  a  tart  temper  never  mellows 
with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edge  tool  that  grows 
keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used  to  con- 
sole himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind 
of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle 
personages  of  the  village,  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench 
before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  his 
Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the 
shade,  of  a  long  lazy  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly  over 
village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing. 
But  it  would  have  been  worth  any  statesman's  money  to 
have  heard  the  profound  discussions  which  sometimes  took 
place,  when  by  chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands 
from  some  passing  traveler.  How  solemnly  they  would 
listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bum- 
mel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper  learned  little  man,  who  was 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the  diction- 
ary; and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon  public 
events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 
Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of 
the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning 
till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep 
in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree ;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell 
the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial. 
It  is  true,  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe 
incessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great  man 
has  his  adherents),  perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how* 
to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything  that  was  read  or 
related  displeased  him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe 
vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry 
puffs ;  but  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly 
and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds,  and 
sometimes  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the 


84  U/orKs  of  U/as1?ii?$toi) 

fragrant  vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his 
head  in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call  the  mem- 
bers all  to  naught;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas 
Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  ter- 
rible virago,  who  charged  him  outright  with  encouraging 
her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair,  and  his 
only  alternative  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  the 
clamor  of  his  wife  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away 
into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf, 
with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecu- 
tion. "Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "thy  mistress  leads  thee 
a  dog's  life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  while  I  live  thou 
shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee!"  Wolf  would 
wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face,  and  if  dogs 
can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated  the  sentiment 
with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts 
of  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sport 
of  squirrel-shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  and 
re-echoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued, 
he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  afternoon ,.  on  a  green  knoll  cov- 
ered with  mountain  herbage  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a 
precipice.  From  an  opening  between  the  trees,  he  could 
overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  wood- 
land. He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  be- 
low him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the 
reflection  of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark, 
here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last 
losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain 
glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  frag- 


85 

ments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the 
reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay 
musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was  gradually  advancing; 
the  mountains  began  to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows  over 
the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it  would  be,  dark  long  before  he 
could  reach  the  village ;  and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when 
he  thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  dis- 
tance hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!" 
He  looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  wing- 
ing its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his 
fancy  must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend, 
when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening 
air,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"— at  the  same 
time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl, 
skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over  him : 
he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  perceived  a 
strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending  un- 
der the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He 
was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and 
unfrequented  place,  but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the 
neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to 
yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short 
square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled 
beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion — a  cloth 
jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist — several  pair  of  breeches,  the 
outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons 
down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his 
shoulders  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made 
signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the  load. 
Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaintance, 
Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity,  and,  mutually  relieving 
each  other,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently 
the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip 


of  U/asI?ii)$toi) 

every  now  and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant 
thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather 
cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged  path 
conducted.  He  paused  for  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be 
the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient  thunder-showers  which 
often  take  place  in  mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Pass- 
ing through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small 
amphitheater,  surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over 
the  brinks  of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so 
that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky,  and  the 
bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time,  Kip  and  his 
companion  had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for  though  the  former 
marveled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg 
of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown  that  in- 
spired awe,  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheater,  new  objects  of  wonder  pre- 
sented themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  center  was  a  com- 
pany of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins.  They 
were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion :  some  wore  short 
doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and 
most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with 
that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar :  one 
had  a  large  head,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ;  the 
face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was 
surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little 
red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and 
colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander. 
He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten  counte- 
nance ;  he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high- 
crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled 
shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Kip 
of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of 
Dominie  Van  Schaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had 
been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settle- 
ment. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip,  was,  that  though 


87 

these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they 
maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence, 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he 
had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the 
scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  rolled, 
echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud- 
denly desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such 
a  fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack- 
luster countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and 
his  knees  smote  together.  His  companion  now  emptied  the 
contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him 
to  wait  upon  the  company.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling ;  they  quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then 
returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the 
beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excel- 
lent Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was 
soon  tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked 
another,  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often 
that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam 
in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  from 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds 
were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the 
eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  mountain 
breeze.  "Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I  have  not  slept  here  all 
night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell  asleep. 
The  strange  man  with  the  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ra- 
vine—the wild  retreat  among  the  rocks — the  woe-begone 
party  at  nine-pins — the  flagon — "Oh!  that  wicked  flagon!" 
thought  Rip — "what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van 
Winkle?" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean, 


88  U/orks  of  U/asl?ir)$toi)  Iruio«$ 

well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by 
him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and 
the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave 
roisterers  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and  hav- 
ing dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf, 
too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after 
a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted 
his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle 
and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his 
dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in 
the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "These  moun- 
tain beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "and  if  this 
frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall 
have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle. ' '  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen ;  he  found  the  gully  up 
which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was 
now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling 
the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift 
to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 
thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel ;  and  sometimes 
tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape-vines  that  twisted 
their  coils  and  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheater;  but  no  traces  of  such 
opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  impenetrable 
wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of 
feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from 
the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip 
was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after 
his  dog ;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of 
idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  over- 
hung a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation, 
seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities. 


The  SKeteI?-BooK  89 

What  was  to  be  done?  The  morning  was  passing  away,  and 
Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to 
give  up  his  dog  and  gun ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife ;  but 
it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook 
his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full 
of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of  people, 
but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him, 
for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  hi  the 
country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion 
from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at 
him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  tv  yp  cast 
eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  constant 
recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do 
the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had 
grown  a  foot  long. 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  n  ?  of  which 
he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barker  ti  as  he 

passed.  The  very  village  was  altered:  it  war  1j  r  and 
more  populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses  wh  ^  he  had 
never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar 
haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the 
doors  —  strange  faces  at  the  windows  —  everything  was 
strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him ;  he  began  to  doubt 
whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not  be- 
witched. Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had 
left  but  a  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  mountains 
— there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance — there  was  every 
hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been — Rip  was  sorely  . 
perplexed — "That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "has 
addled  my  poor  head  sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting 
every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the 


90  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir?<$toi> 

windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half- 
starved  dog,  that  looked  like  Wolf,  was  skulking  about  it. 
Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his 
teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed. — 
"My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten  me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  for- 
lorn, and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  over- 
came all  his  connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife 
and  children — the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with 
his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the 
village  inn— but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some 
of  them  broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats, 
and  over  the  door  was  painted,  "The  Union  Hotel,  by 
Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used 
to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was 
reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that 
looked  like  a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag, 
on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes — 
all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  recognized 
on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under 
which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe,  but  even  this 
was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed 
for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  in- 
stead of  a  scepter,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat, 
and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters,  GENERAL 
WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people 
seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
-tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Ved- 
der,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  ut- 
tering clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  instead  of  idle  speeches;  or 
Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of 

\ 


91 

an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-look- 
ing fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,  was  harangu- 
ing vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens — election — members 
of  Congress — liberty — Bunker's  hill — heroes  of  seventy-six 
— and_  other  words,  that  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon 
to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the  army  of 
women  and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels,  soon 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They 
crowded  round  him,  eying  him  from  head  to  foot,  with 
great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and  drawing 
him  partly  aside,  inquired,  "on  which  side  he  voted?"  Rip 
stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little 
fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired 
in  his  ear,  "whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat."  Rip 
was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question;  when  a 
knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked 
hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the 
right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting 
himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other 
resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating, 
as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone, 
"what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed 
a  riot  in  the  village?" 

"Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I 
am  a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  sub- 
ject of  the  King,  God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders— "a 
Tory!  a  Tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away  with 
him!" 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man 
in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order;  and  having  assumed  a  ten- 
fold austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  cul- 
prit, what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking. 
The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 


of 

but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors, 
who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder?  why,  he 
is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a  wooden 
tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him, 
but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Butcher?" 

"Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony-Point 
— others  say  he  was  drowned  in  the  squall,  at  the  foot  of 
Anthony's  Nose.  I  don't  know — he  never  came  back  again. ' ' 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too;  was  a  great  militia  gen- 
eral, and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the 
world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such 
enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not 
understand:  war — Congress — Stony-Point!— he  had  no  cour- 
age to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair, 
"Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three.  "Oh, 
to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precis^  counterpart  of  himself 
as  he  went  up  the  mountain ;  apparently  as  lazy,  and  cer- 
tainly as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  con- 
founded. He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was 
himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment, 
the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what 
was  his  name? 

"God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end;  "I'm  not 
myself — I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — that's 


93 

somebody  else,  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I 
can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!" 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 
wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  fore- 
heads. There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun, 
and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief ;  at  the  very 
suggestion  of  which,  the  self-important  man  with  the  cocked 
hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment 
a  fresh  comely  woman  passed  through  the  throng  to  get  a 
peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in 
her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry. 
"Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "hush,  you  little  fool;  the  old 
man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of 
the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train 
of  recollections  in  his  mind. 

"What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman?"  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name?" 

"Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Van  Winkle;  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun, 
and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home  with- 
out him ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away 
by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little 
girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put  it  with 
a  faltering  voice : 
^  "Where's  your  mother?" 

Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since :  she  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  England  peddler. 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "I  am  your  father!" 
cried  he — "young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle 
now! — Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle!" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 


94  U/ork.8  of  U/asbji}$toi) 

among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering 
under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "Sure  enough! 
it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself.  Welcome  home  again, 
old  neighbor.  Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 
years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had 
been  to  him  but  as  one  night.'  The  neighbors  stared  when 
they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and 
put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks;  and  the  self-important 
man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had 
returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
and  shook  his  head — upon  which  there  was  a  general  shak- 
ing of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was '  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the 
road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name, 
who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter 
was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well 
versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the 
neighborhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated 
his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He  assured  the 
company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor 
the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  mountains  had  always  been 
haunted  by  strange  beings.  '  That  it  was  affirmed  that  the 
great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and 
country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with 
his  crew  of  the  "Half  Moon,"  being  permitted  in  this  way 
to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian 
eye  upon  the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name. 
That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch 
dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain ; 
and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the 
sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 
Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a 
snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer  for  a 


95 

husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that 
used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who 
was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he 
was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced  a  hereditary 
disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for 
the  wear  and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends 
among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into 
great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  do  nothing  with  impunity,  he 
took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench,  at  the  inn  door,  and 
was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and 
a  chronicle  of  the  old  times  "before  the  war."  It  was  some 
time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or 
could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had 
taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a 
revolutionary  war — that  $he  country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke 
of  old  England— and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  his 
Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the 
United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician;  the  changes 
of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impression  on  him;  but 
there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long 
groaned,  and  that  was — petticoat  government.  Happily  that 
was  at  an  end ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matri- 
mony, and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  without 
dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her 
name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes ;  which  might  pass  either 
for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his 
deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at 
Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on 
some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was  doubtless  owing 
to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down 
precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman, 


of  U/asl?ir)<$toi? 

or  child  in  the  neighborhood  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some 
always  pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that 
Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on 
which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabit- 
ants, however,  almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even 
to  this  day,  they  never  hear  a  thunderstorm  of  a  summer 
afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hud- 
son and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine-pins ;  and  it  is  a 
common  wish  of  all  henpecked  husbands  hi  the  neighborhood, 
when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have 
a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE. — The  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been 
suggested  to  Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  supersti- 
tion about  the  Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart  and  the 
Kypphauser  mountain;  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which 
he  had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact, 
narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to 
many,  but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know 
the  vicinity  of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very 
subject  to  marvelous  events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I 
have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages 
along  the  Hudson,  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated 
to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van 
Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw  him,  was  a  very  ven- 
erable old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on 
every  other  point  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could 
refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  cer- 
tificate on  the  subject  taken  before  a  countrj-  justice,  and 
signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The 
story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt." 


97 


ENGLISH    WRITERS    ON    AMERICA 

"  Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  puissant  nation,  rousing  herself 
like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks ;  me- 
thinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling 
•  her  endazzled^eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam." 

—MILTON  ON  THE  LIBERTY  OF  THE  PRESS 

IT  is  with  feelings  of  deep  regret  that  I  observe  the 
literary  animosity  daily  growing  up  between  England  and 
America.  Great  curiosity  has  been  awakened  of  late  with 
respect  to  the  United  States,  and  the  London  press  has 
teemed  with  volumes  of  travels  through  the  Republic;  but 
they  seem  intended  to  diffuse  error  rather  than  knowledge ; 
and  so  successful  have  they  been  that,  notwithstanding  the 
constant  intercourse  between  the  nations,  there  is  no  people 
concerning  whom  the  great  mass  of  the  British  public  have 
less  pure  information,  or  entertain  more  numerous  prejudices. 

English  travelers  are  the  best  and  the  worst  in  the  world. 
Where  no  motives  of  pride  or  interest  intervene,  none  can 
equal  them  for  profound  and  philosophical  views  of  society, 
or  faithful  and  graphical  descriptions  of  external  objects;  but 
when  either  the  interest  or  reputation  of  their  own  country 
conies  in  collision  with  that  of  another,  they  go  to  the  oppo- 
site extreme,  and  forget  their  usual  probity  and  candor,  in 
the  indulgence  of  splenetic  remark,  and  an  illiberal  spirit  of 
ridicule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accurate  the 
more  remote  the  country  described.  I  would  place  implicit 
confidence  in  an  Englishman's  description  of  the  regions  be- 
yond the  cataracts  of  the  Nile ;  of  unknown  islands  in  the 
Yellow  Sea;  of  the  interior  of  India;  or  of  any  other  tract 
*  *  *5  VOL.  1. 


98  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii}<$toi? 

which  other  travelers  might  be  apt  to  picture  out  with  the 
illusions  of  their  fancies.  But  I  would  cautiously  receive  his 
account  of  his  immediate  neighbors,  and  of  those  nations  with 
which  he  is  hi  habits  of  most  frequent  intercourse.  However 
I  might  be  disposed  to  trust  his  probity,  I  dare  not  trust  his 
prejudices. 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  country  to  be 
visited  by  the  worst  kind  of  English  travelers.  While  men 
of  philosophical  spirit  and  cultivated  minds  have  been  sent 
from  England  to  ransack  the  poles,  to  penetrate  the  deserts, 
and  to  study  the  manners  and  customs  of  barbarous  nations, 
with  which  she  can  have  no  permanent  intercourse  of  profit 
or  pleasure;  it  has  been  left  to  the  broken-down  tradesman, 
the  scheming  adventurer,  the  wandering  mechanic,  the  Man- 
chester and  Birmingham  agent,  to  be  her  oracles  respecting 
America.  From  such  sources  she  is  content  to  receive  her 
information  respecting_a  country  in  a  singular  state  of  moral 
and  physical  development ;  a  country  in  which  one  of  the 
greatest  political  experiments  hi  the  history  of  the  world  is 
now  performing,  and  which  presents  the  most  profound  and 
momentous  studies  to  the  statesman  and  the  philosopher. 

That  such  men  should  give  prejudiced  accounts  of  America 
is  not  a  matter  of  surprise.  The  themes  it  offers  for  contem- 
plation are  too  vast  and  elevated  for  their  capacities.  The 
national  character  is  yet  in  a  state  of  fermentation :  it  may 
have  its  f  rothiness  and  sediment,  but  its  ingredients  are  sound 
and  wholesome:  it  has  already  given  proofs  of  ^powerful  and 
generous  qualities;  and  the  whole  promises  to  settle  down 
into  something  substantially  excellent.  But  the  causes  which 
are  operating  to  strengthen  and  ennoble  it,  and  its  daily  in- 
dications of  admirable  properties,  are  all  lost  upon  these  pur- 
blind observers ;  who  are  only  affected  by  the  little  asperities 
incident  to  its  present  situation.  They  are  capable  of  judg- 
ing only  of  the  surface  of  things;  of  those  matters  which 
come  in  contact  with  their  private  interests  and  personal 
gratifications.  They  miss  some  of  the  snug  conveniences 
and  petty  comforts  which  belong  to  an  old,  highly-finished, 


99 

and  over-populous  state  of  society ;  where  the  ranks  of  useful 
labor  are  crowded,  and  many  earn  a  painful  and  servile  sub- 
sistence, by  studying  the  very  caprices  of  appetite  and  self- 
indulgence.  These  minor  comforts,  however,  are  all-impor- 
tant in  the  estimation  of  narrow  minds;  which  either  do  not 
perceive,  or  will  not  acknowledge,  that  they  are  more  than 
counterbalanced  among  us,  by  great  and  generally  diffused 
blessings. 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  in  some  un- 
reasonable expectation  of  sudden  gain.  They  may  have  pict- 
ured America  to  themselves  an  El  Dorado,  where  gold  and 
silver  abounded,  and  the  natives  were  lacking  in  sagacity; 
and  where  they  were  to  become  strangely  and  suddenly  rich 
in  some  unforeseen  but  easy  manner.  The  same  weakness 
of  mind  that  indulges  absurd  expectations  produces  petu- 
lance in  disappointment.  Such  persons  become  imbittered 
against  the  country  on  finding  that  there,  as  everywhere 
else,  a  man  must  sow  before  he  can  reap;  must  win  wealth 
by  industry  and  talent ;  and  must  contend  with  the  common 
difficulties  of  nature,  and  the  shrewdness  of  an  intelligent 
and  enterprising  people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken  or  ill-directed  hospitality,  or 
from  the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer  and  countenance  the 
stranger,  prevalent  among  my  countrymen,  they  have  been 
treated  with  unwonted  respect  in  America ;  and,  having  been 
accustomed  all  their  lives  to  consider  themselves  below  the 
surface  of  good  society,  and  brought  up  in  a  servile  feeling 
of  inferiority,  they  become  arrogant  on  the  common  boon  of 
civility;  they  attribute  to  the  lowliness  of  others  their  own 
elevation ;  and  underrate  a  society  where  there  are  no  artifi- 
cial distinctions,  and  where  by  -any  chance  such  individuals 
as  themselves  can  rise  to  consequence. 

One  would  suppose,  however,  that  information  coming 
from  such  sources,  on  a  subject  where  the  truth  is  so  desir- 
able, would  be  received  with  caution  by  the  censors  of  the 
press ;  that  the  motives  of  these  men,  their  veracity,  their 
opportunities  of  inquiry  and  observation,  and  their  capacities 


100  U/orks  of  U/asl?ii)$toi? 

for  judging  correctly,  would  be  rigorously  scrutinized,  before 
their  evidence  was  admitted,  in  such  sweeping  extent,  against 
a  kindred  nation.  The  very  reverse,  however,  is  the  case, 
and  it  furnishes  a  striking  instance  of  human  inconsistency. 
Nothing  can  surpass  the  vigilance  with  which  English  critics 
will  examine  the  credibility  of  the  traveler  who  publishes  an 
account  of  some  distant,  and  comparatively  unimportant, 
country.  How  warily  will  they  compare  the  measurements 
of  a  pyramid,  or  the  description  of  a  rum ;  and  how  sternly 
will  they  censure  any  inaccuracy  in  these  contributions  of 
merely  curious  knowledge;  while  they  will  receive,  with 
eagerness  and  unhesitating  faith  the  gross  misrepresentations 
of  coarse  and  obscure  writers,  concerning  a  country  with 
which  their  own  is  placed  in  the  most  important  and  delicate 
relations.  Nay,  they  will  even  make  these  apocryphal  vol- 
umes text-books,  on  which  to  enlarge,  with  zeal  and  an  ability 
worthy  of  a  more  generous  cause. 

I  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and  hackneyed 
topic ;  nor  should  I  have  adverted  to  it  but  for  the  undue  in- 
terest apparently  taken  in  it  by  my  countrymen,  and  certain 
injurious  effects  which  I  apprehend  it  might  produce  upon 
the  national  feeling.  We  attach  too  much  consequence  to 
these  attacks.  They  cannot  do  us  any  essential  injury.  The 
tissue  of  misrepresentations  attempted  to  be  woven  round 
us,  are  like  cobwebs  woven  round  the  limbs  of  an  infant 
giant.  Our  country  continually  outgrows  them.  One  false- 
hood after  another  falls  off  of  itself.  We  have  but  to  live 
on,  and  every  day  we  live  a  whole  volume  of  refutation. 
All  the  writers  of  England  united,  if  we  could  for  a  moment 
suppose  their  great  minds  stooping  to  so  unworthy  a  com- 
bination, could  not  conceal  pur  rapidly  growing  importance 
and  matchless  prosperity.  They  could  not  conceal  that  these 
are  owing,  not  merely  to  physical  and  local,  but  also  to  moral 
causes;  —  to  the  political  liberty,  the  general  diffusion  of 
knowledge,  the  prevalence  of  sound,  moral,  and  religious 
principles,  which  give  force  and  sustained  energy  to  the 
character  of  a  people ;  and  which,  in  fact,  have  been  the 


101 

acknowledged  and  wonderful  supporters  of  their  own  na- 
tional power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the  aspersions  of  I 
England?  Why  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so  affected  by 
the  contumely  she  has  endeavored  to  cast  upon  us?  It  is  not 
in  the  opinion  of  England  alone  that  honor  lives,  and  reputa- 
tion has  its  being.  The  world  at  large  is  the  arbiter  of  a 
nation's  fame:  with  its  thousand  eyes  it  witnesses  a  nation's 
deeds,  and  from  their  collective  testimony  is  national  glory 
or  national  disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of  but  little 
importance  whether  England  does  us  justice  or  not ;  it  is, 
perhaps,  of  far  more  importance  to  herself.  She  is  instilling  •> 
anger  and  resentment  into  the  bosom  of  a  youthful  nation, 
to  grow  with  its  growth,  and  strengthen  with  its  strength. 
If  in  America,  as  some  of  her  writers  are  laboring  to  con- 
vince her,  she  is  hereafter  to  find  an  invidious  rival,  and  a 
gigantic  foe,  she  may  thank  those  very  writers  for  having 
provoked  rivalship,  and  irritated  hostility.  Every  one  knows 
the  all-pervading  influence  of  literature  at  the  present  day, 
and  how  much  the  opinions  and  passions  of  mankind  are  un-  y 
der  its  control.  The  mere  contests  of  the  sword  are  tempo- 
rary ;  their  wounds  are  but  in  the  flesh,  and  it  is  the  pride  of 
the  generous  to  forgive  and  forget  them;  but  the  glanders 
of  the  pen  pierce  to  the  heart;  they  rankle  longest  in  the 
noblest  spirits;  they  dwell  ever  present  in  the  mind,  and 
render  it  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  most  trifling  collision.  It 
is  but  seldom  that  any  one  overt  act  produces  hostilities  be- 
tween two  nations;  there  exists,  most  commonly,  a  previous 
jealousy  and  ill-will,  a  predisposition  to  take  offense.  Trace 
these  to  their  cause,  and  how  often  will  they  be  found  to 
originate  in  the  mischievous  effusions  of  mercenary  writers ; 
who,  secure  in  their  closets,  and  for  ignominious  bread,  con- 
coct and  circulate  the  venom  that  is  to  inflame  the  generous 
and  the  brave. 

I  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this  point;   for  it 
applies  most  emphatically  to  our  particular  case.     Over  no 


102  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii><$tor?  Iruii)$ 

nation  does  the  press  hold  a  more  absolute  control  than  over 
the  people  of  America ;  for  the  universal  education  of  the  poor- 
est classes  makes  every  individual  a  reader.  There  is  nothing 
published  in  England  on  the  subject  of  our  country  that  does 
not  circulate  through  every  part  of  it.  There  is  not  a  calumny 
dropped  from  an  English  pen,  nor  an  unworthy  sarcasm  ut- 
tered by  an  English  statesman,  that  does  not  go  to  blight 
good-will,  and  add  to  the  mass  of  latent  resentment.  Pos- 
sessing, then,  as  England  does,  the  fountain  head  from 
whence  the  literature  of  the  language  flows,  how  completely 
is  it  in  her  power,  and  how  truly  is  it  her  duty,  to  make  it 
the  medium  of  amiable  and  magnanimous  feeling — a  stream 
where  the  two  nations  might  meet  together,  and  drink  in 
peace  and  kindness.  Should  she,  however,  persist  in  turning 
it  to  waters  of  bitterness,  the  time  may  come  when  she  may 
repent  her  folly.  The  present  friendship  of  America  may 
be  of  but  little  moment  to  her;  but  the  future  destinies  of 
that  country  do  not  admit  of  a  doubt :  over  those  of  England 
there  lower  some  shadows  of  uncertainty.  Should,  then,  a 
day  of  gloom  arrive — should  those  reverses  overtake  her, 
from  which  the  proudest  empires  have  not  been  exempt — she 
may  look  back  with  regret  at  her  infatuation,  in  repulsing 
from  her  side  a  nation  she  might  have  grappled  to  her  bosom, 
and  thus  destroying  her  only  chance  for  real  friendship  be- 
yond the  boundaries  of  her  own  dominions. 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  England  that  the  people 
of  the  United  States  are  inimical  to  the  parent  country.  It 
is  one  of  the  errors  which  has  been  diligently  propagated  by 
designing  writers.  There  is,  doubtless,  considerable  political 
hostility,  and  a  general  soreness  at  the  illiberality  of  the  En- 
glish press;  but,  collectively  speaking,  the  prepossessions  of 
the  people  are  strongly  in  favor  of  England.  Indeed,  at  one 
time  they  amounted,  in  many  parts  of  the  Union,  to  an  ab- 
surd degree  of  bigotry.  The  bare  name  of  Englishman  was 
a  passport  to  the  confidence  and  hospitality  of  every  family, 
and  too  often  gave  a  transient  currency  to  the  worthless  and 
the  ungrateful.  Throughout  the  country,  there  was  some- 


103 

thing  of  enthusiasm  connected  with  the  idea  of  England. 
We  looked  to  it  with  a  hallowed  feeling  of  tenderness  and 
veneration  as  the  land  of  our  forefathers — the  august  reposi- 
tory  of  the  monuments  and  antiquities  of  our  race — the  birth- 
place and  mausoleum  of  the  sages  and  heroes  of  our  paternal 
history.  After  our  own  country,  there  was  none  in  whose 
glory  we  more  delighted — none  whose  good  opinion  we  were 
more  anxious  to  possess— none  toward  which  our  hearts 
yearned  with  such  throbbings  of  warm  consanguinity.  Even 
during  the  late  war,  whenever  there  was  the  least  opportu- 
nity for  kind  feelings  to  spring  forth,  it  was  the  delight  of 
the  generous  spirits  of  our  country  to  show  that  in  the  midst 
of  hostilities  they  still  kept  alive  the  sparks  of  future  friend- 
ship. 

Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end?  Is  this  golden  band  of  kin- 
dred sympathies,  so  rare  between  nations,  to  be  broken  for- 
ever?— Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best — it  may  dispel  an  allusion 
which  might  have  kept  us  in  mental  vassalage ;  which  might 
have  interfered  occasionally  with  our  true  interests,  and 
prevented  the  growth  of  proper  national  pride.  But  it  is 
hard  to  give  up  the  kindred  tie! — and  there  are  feelings 
dearer  than  interest — closer  to  the  heart  than  pri^e — that 
will  still  make  us  cast  back  a  look  of  regret  as  we  wander 
further  and  further  from  the  paternal  roof,  and  lament  the 
waywardness  of  the  parent  that  would  repel  the  affections 
of  the  child. 

Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the  conduct  of 
England  may  be  in  this  system  of  aspersion,  ^recrimination 
on  our  part  would  be  equally  ill-judged.  I  speak  not  of  a 
prompt  and  spirited  vindication  of  our  country,  or  the  keen- 
est castigation  of  her  slanderers,  but  I  allude  to  a  disposition 
to  retaliate  in  kind,  to  retort  sarcasm  and  inspire  prejudice, 
which  seems  to  be  spreading  widely  among  our  writers.  Let 
us  guard  particularly  against  such  a  temper;  for  it  would 
double  the  evil,  instead  of  redressing  the  wrong.  Nothing 
is  so  easy  and  inviting  as  the  retort  of  abuse  and  sarcasm; 
but  it  is  a  paltry  and  unprofitable  contest.  It  is  the  alterna- 


104  U/or^e  of  U/aslpii^toi? 

tive  of  a  morbid  mind,  fretted  into  petulance,  rather  than 
warmed  into  indignation.  If  England  is  willing  to  permit 
the  mean  jealousies  of  trade,  or  the  rancorous  animosities  of 
politics,  to  deprave  the  integrity  of  her  press,  and  poison  the 
fountain  of  public  opinion,  let  us  beware  of  her  example. 
She  may  deem  it  her  interest  to  diffuse  error,  and  engender 
antipathy,  for  the  purpose  of  checking  emigration;  we  have 
no  purpose  of  the  kind  to  serve.  Neither  have  we  any  spirit 
of  national  jealousy  to  gratify;  for  as  yet,  in  all  our  rival- 
ships  with  England,  we  are  the  rising  and  the  gaining  party. 
There  can  be  no  end  to  answer,  therefore,  but  the  gratifica- 
tion of  resentment — a  mere  spirit  of  retaliation ;  and  even 
that  is  impotent.  Our  retorts  are  never  republished  in  Eng- 
land; they  fall  short,  therefore,  of  their  aim;  but  they  foster 
a  querulous  and  peevish  temper  among  our  writers;  they  sour 
the  sweet  flow  of  our  early  literature,  and  sow  thorns  and 
brambles  among  its  blossoms.  What  is  still  worse,  they  cir- 
culate through  our  own  country,  and,  as  far  as  they  have 
effect,  excite  virulent  national  prejudices.  This  last  is  the 
evil  most  especially  to  be  deprecated.  Governed,  as  we  are, 
entirely  by  public  opinion,  the  utmost  care  should  be  taken 
.to  preserve  the  purity  of  the  public  mind.-  Knowledge  is 
power,  and  truth  is  knowledge;  whoever,  therefore,  know- 
ingly propagates  a  prejudice,  willfully  saps  the  foundation 
of  his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other  men,  should 
be  candid  and  dispassionate.  They  are,  individually,  por- 
tions of  the  sovereign  mind  and  sovereign  will,  and  should 
be  enabled  to  come  to  all  questions  of  national  concern  with 
calm  and  unbiased  judgments.  From  the  peculiar  nature 
of  our  relations  with  England,  we  must  have  more  frequent 
questions  of  a  difficult  and  delicate  character  with  her  than 
with  any  other  nation;  questions  that  affect  the  most  acute 
and  excitable  feelings :  and  as,  in  the  adjusting  of  these,  our 
national  measures  must  ultimately  be  determined  by  popular 
sentiment,  we  cannot  be  too  anxiously  attentive  to  purify  it 
from  all  latent  passion  or  prepossession. 


105 

Opening  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  strangers  from 
every  portion  of  the  earth,  we  should  receive  all  with  impar- 
tiality. It  should  be  our  pride  to  exhibit  an  example  of  one 
nation,  at  least,  destitute  of  national  antipathies,  and  exer- 
cising, not  merely  the  overt  acts  of  hospitality,  but  those 
more  rare  and  noble  courtesies  which  spring  from  liberality 
of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  national  prejudices?  They  are 
the  inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries,  contracted  in  rude 
and  ignorant  ages,  when  nations  knew  but  little  of  each 
other,  and  looked  beyond  their  own  boundaries  with  distrust 
and  hostility.  We,  on  the  contrary,  have  sprung  into  na- 
tional existence  in  an  enlightened  and  philosophic  age,  when 
the  different  parts  of  the  habitable  world,  and  the  various 
branches  of  the  human  family,  have  been  indefatigably 
studied  and  made  known  to  each  other ;  and  we  forego  the 
advantages  of  our  birth,  if  we  do  not  shake  off  the  national 
prejudices,  as  we  would  the  local  superstitions,  of  the  old  world. 

But,  above  all,  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any  angry  feel- 
ings, so  far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  of  what  is 
really  excellent  and  amiable  in  the  English  character.  We 
are  a  young  people,  necessarily  an  imitative  one,  and  must 
take  our  examples  and  models,  in  a  great  degree,  from  the 
existing  nations  of  Europe.  There  is  no  country  more 
worthy  of  our  study  than  England.  The  spirit  of  her  con- 
stitution is  most  analogous  to  ours.  The  manners  of  her 
people — their  intellectual  activity — their  freedom  of  opinion 
— their  habits  of  thinking  on  those  subjects  which  concern 
the  dearest  interests  and  most  sacred  charities  of  private  life, 
are  all  congenial  to  the  American  character;  and,  in  fact, 
are  all  intrinsically  excellent ;  for  it  is  in  the  moral  feeling  of 
the  people  that  the  deep  foundations  of  British  prosperity  are 
laid ;  and  however  the  superstructure  may  be  time-worn,  or 
overrun  by  abuses,  there  must  be  something  solid  in  the 
basis,  admirable  in  the  materials,  and  stable  in  the  structure 
of  an  edifice  that  so  long  has  towered  unshaken  amid  the 
tempests  of  the  world. 


106  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)<$toi7  Irulr><? 

Let  it  be  the  pride  of  our  writers,  therefore,  discarding  all 
feelings  of  irritation,  and  disdaining  to  retaliate  the  illiberal- 
ity  of  British  authors,  to  speak  of  the  English  nation  without 
prejudice  and  with  determined  candor.  While  they  rebuke 
the  indiscriminating  bigotry  with  which  some  of  our  coun- 
trymen admire  and  imitate  everything  English  merely  be- 
cause it  is  English,  let  them  frankly  point  out  what  is  really 
worthy  of  approbation.  We  may  thus  place  England  before 
us  as  a  perpetual  volume  of  reference,  wherein  are  recorded 
sound  deductions  from  ages  of  experience;  and  while  we 
avoid  the  errors  and  absurdities  which  may  have  crept 
into  the  page,  we  may  draw  thence  golden  maxims  of  practi- 
cal wisdom,  wherewith  to  strengthen  and  to  embellish  our 
national  character. 


RURAL    LIFE    IN    ENGLAND 

"Oh!  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasures  past!" 

— COWPER 

THE  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct  opinion  of  the 
English  character  must  not  confine  his  observations  to  the 
metropolis.  He  must  go  forth  into  the  country;  he  must 
sojourn  in  villages  and  hamlets;  he  must  visit  castles,  villas, 
farmhouses,  cottages;  he  must  wander  through  parks  and 
gardens ;  along  hedges  and  green  lanes ;  he  must  loiter  about 
country  churches;  attend  wakes  and  fairs,  and  other  rural 
festivals;  and  cope  with  the  people  in  all  their  conditions, 
and  all  their  habits  and  humors. 

In  some  countries,  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth  and 
fashion  of  the  nation ;  they  are  the  only  fixed  abodes  of  ele- 
gant and  intelligent  society,  and  the  country  is  inhabited  al- 
most entirely  by  boorish  peasantry.  In  England,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  metropolis  is  a  mere  gathering-place,  or  general 


Tl?e  SKetel?-BooK  107 

rendezvous,  of  the  polite  classes,  where  they  devote  a  small 
portion  of  the  year  to  a  hurry  of  gayety  and  dissipation,  and, 
having  indulged  this  kind  of  carnival,  return  again  to  the 
apparently  more  congenial  habits  of  rural  life.  The  various 
orders  of  society  are  therefore  diffused  over  the  whole  sur- 
face of  the  kingdom,  and  the  most  retired  neighborhoods 
afford  specimens  of  the  different  ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the  rural 
feeling.  They  possess  a  quick  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of 
nature,  and  a  keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  and  employments 
of  the  country.  This  passion  seems  inherent  in  them.  Even 
the  inhabitants  of  cities,  born  and  brought  up  among  brick 
walls  and  bustling  streets,  enter  with  facility  into  rural 
habits,  and  evince  a  tact  for  rural  occupation.  The  mer- 
chant has  his  snug  retreat  in  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis, 
where  he  often  displays  as  much  pride  and  zeal  in  the  culti- 
vation of  his  flower-garden,  and  the  maturing  of  his  fruits, 
as  he  does  in  the  conduct  of  his  business  and  the  success  of 
a  commercial  enterprise.  Even  those  less  fortunate  individ- 
uals, who  are  doomed  to  pass  their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din 
and  traffic,  contrive  to  have  something  that  shall  remind 
them  of  the  green  aspect  of  nature.  In  the  most  dark  and 
dingy  quarters  of  the  city  the  drawing-room  window  re- 
sembles frequently  a  bank  of  flowers ;  every  spot  capable  of 
vegetation  has  its  grass-plot  and  flower-bed ;  and  every  square 
its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque  taste,  and  gleaming 
with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town  are  apt  to 
form  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social  character.  He  is 
either  absorbed  in  business,  or  distracted  by  the  thousand 
engagements  that  dissipate  time,  thought,  and  feeling,  in 
this  huge  metropolis.  He  has,  therefore,  too  commonly,  a 
look  of  hurry  and  abstraction.  "Wherever  he  happens  to  be, 
he  is  on  the  point  of  going  somewhere  else ;  at  the  moment 
he  is  talking  on  one  subject  his  mind  is  wandering  to  an- 
other; and  while  paying  a  friendly  visit  he  is  calculating 
how  he  shall  economize  time  so  as  to  pay  the  other  visits 


108  U/orKs  of  UYastyip^toi) 

allotted  to  the  morning.  An  immense  metropolis,  like  Lon- 
don, is  calculated  to  make  men  selfish  and  uninteresting.  In 
their  casual  and  transient  meetings  they  can  but  deal  briefly 
in  commonplaces.  They  present  but  the  cold  superficies  of 
character — its  rich  and  genial  qualities  have  no  time  to  be 
warmed  into  a  flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives  scope  to 
his  natural  feelings.  He  breaks  loose  gladly  from  the  cold 
formalities  and  negative  civilities  of  town;  throws  off  his 
habits  of  shy  reserve,  and  becomes  joyous  and  free-hearted. 
He  manages  to  collect  round  him  all  the  conveniencies  and 
elegancies  of  polite  life,  and  to  banish  its  restraints.  His 
country-seat  abounds  with  every  requisite,  either  for  studious 
retirement,  tasteful  gratification,  or  rural  exercise.  Books, 
paintings,  music,  horses,  dogs,  and  sporting  implements  of 
all  kinds,  are  at  hand.  He  puts  no  constraint,  either  upon 
his  guests  or  himself,  but,  in  the  true  spirit  of  hospitality, 
provides  the  means  of  enjoyment,  and  leaves  every  one  to 
partake  according  to  his  inclination. 

The  taste  of  the  English  in  the  cultivation  of  land,  and  in 
what  is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unrivaled.  They  have 
studied  Nature  intently,  and  discovered  an  exquisite  sense  of 
her  beautiful  forms  and  harmonious  combinations.  Those 
charms  which,  in  other  countries,  she  lavishes  "in  wild  soli- 
tudes, are  here  assembled  round  the  haunts  of  domestic  life. 
They  seem  to  have  caught  her  coy  and  furtive  graces,  and 
spread  them,  like  witchery,  about  their  rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  magnificence  of 
English  park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that  extend  like  sheets 
of  vivid  green,  with  here  and  there  clumps  of  gigantic  trees, 
heaping  up  rich  piles  of  foliage.  The  solemn  pomp  of  groves 
and  woodland  glades,  with  the  deer  trooping  in  silent  herds 
across  them ;  the  hare,  bounding  away  to  the  covert ;  or  the 
pheasant,  suddenly  bursting  upon  the  wing.  The  brook, 
taught  to  wind  in  natural  meanderings,  or  expand  into  a 
glassy  lake — the  sequestered  pool,  reflecting  the  quivering 
trees,  with  the  yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its  bosom,  and  the 


109 

trout  roaming  fearlessly  about  its  limpid  waters;  while  some 
rustic  temple,  or  sylvan  statue,  grown  green  and  dank  with 
age,  gives  an  air  of  classic  sanctity  to  the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery;  but 
what  most  delights  me  is  the  creative  talent  with  which  the 
English  decorate  the  unostentatious  abodes  of  middle  life. 
The  rudest  habitation,  the  most  unpromising  and  scanty  por- 
tion of  land,  in  the  hands  of  an  Englishman  of  taste,  becomes 
a  little  paradise.  With  a  nicely  discriminating  eye,  he  seizes 
at  once  upon  its  capabilities,  and  pictures  in  his  mind  the 
future  landscape.  The  sterile  spot  grows  into  loveliness  un- 
der his  hand;  and  yet  the  operations  of  art  which  produce 
the  effect  are  scarcely  to  be  perceived.  The  cherishing  and 
training  of  some  trees;  the  cautious  pruning  of  others;  the 
nice  distribution  of  flowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  graceful 
foliage;  the  introduction  of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf;  the 
partial  opening  to  a  peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of 
water — all  these  are  managed  with  a  delicate  tact,  a  pervad- 
ing yet  quiet  assiduity,  like  the  magic  touchings  with  which 
a  painter  finishes  up  a  favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement  in  the 
country  has  diffused  a  degree  of  taste  and  elegance  in  rural 
economy  that  descends  to  the  lowest  class.  The  very  laborer, 
with  his  thatched  cottage  and  narrow  slip  of  ground,  attends 
to  their  embellishment.  The  trim  hedge,  the  grass-plot  be- 
fore the  door,  the  little  flower-bed  bordered  with  snug  box, 
the  woodbine  trained  up  against  the  wall,  and  hanging  its 
blossoms  about  the  lattice;  the  pot  of  flowers  in  the  window; 
the  holly,  providently  planted  about  the  house,  to  cheat  win- 
ter of  its  dreariness,  and  to  throw  in  a  semblance  of  green 
summer  to  cheer  the  fireside : — all  these  bespeak  the  influence 
of  taste,  flowing  down  from  high  sources,  and  pervading  the 
lowest  levels  of  the  public  mind.  If  ever  Love,  as  poets 
sing,  delights  to  visit  a  cottage,  it  must  be  the  cottage  of  an 
English  peasant. 

The  fondness  for  rural  life  among  the  higher  classes  of 
the  English  has  had  a  great  and  salutary  effect  upon  the 


110  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir?$too  Iruir)<j 

national  character. yl.  I  do  not  know  a  finer  race  of  men  than 
the  English  gentlemen.  ••  Instead  of  the  softness  and  effemi- 
nacy which  characterize  the  men  of  rank  in  most  countries, 
they  exhibit  a  union  of  elegance  and  strength,  a  robustness 
of  frame  and  freshness  of  complexion,  which  I  am  inclined  to 
attribute  to  their  living  so  much  in  the  open  air,  and  pursu- 
ing so  eagerly  the  invigorating  recreations  of  the  country. 
The  hardy  exercises  produce  also  a  healthful  tone  of  mind 
and  spirits,  and  a  manliness  and  simplicity  of  manners,  which 
even  the  follies  and  dissipations  of  the  town  cannot  easily 
pervert,  and  can  never  entirely  destroy.  In  the  country, 
too,  the  different  orders  of  society  seem  to  approach  more 
freely,  to  be  more  disposed  to  blend  and  operate  favorably 
upon  each  other.  The  distinctions  between  them  do  not  ap- 
pear to  be  so  marked  and  impassable  as  in  the  cities.  The 
manner  in  which  property  has  been  distributed  into  small 
estates  and  farms  has  established  a  regular  gradation  from 
the  noblemen,  through  the  classes  of  gentry,  small  landed 
proprietors,  and  substantial  farmers,  down  to  the  laboring 
peasantry;  and,  while  it  has  thus  banded  the  extremes  of 
society  together,  has  infused  into  each  intermediate  rank  a 
spirit  of  independence.  This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  not  so 
universally  the  case  at  present  as  it  was  formerly ;  the  larger 
estates  having,  in  late  years  of  distress,  absorbed  the  smaller, 
and,  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  almost  annihilated  the 
sturdy  race  of  small  farmers.  These,  however,  I  believe, 
are  but  casual  breaks  in  the  general  system  I  have  men- 
tioned. 

In  rural  occupation  there  is  nothing  mean  and  debasing. 
It  leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  grandeur  and 
beauty;  it  leaves  him  to  the  workings  of  his  own  mind, 
operated  upon  by  the  purest  and  most  elevating  of  external 
influences.  Such  a  man  may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  he 
cannot  be  vulgar.  The  man  of  refinement,  therefore,  finds 
nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse  with  the  lower  orders  in 
rural  life,  as  he  does  when  he  casually  mingles  with  the 
lower  orders  of  cities.  He  lays  aside  his  distance  and  re- 


111 

serve,  and  is  glad  to  waive  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and  to 
enter  into  the  honest,  heartfelt  enjoyments  of  common  life. 
Indeed,  the  very  amusements  of  the  country  bring  men  more 
and  more  together;  and  the  sound  of  hound  and  horn  blend 
all  feelings  into  harmony.  I  believe  this  is  one  great  reason 
why  the  nobility  and  gentry  are  more  popular  among  the 
inferior  orders  in  England  than  they  are  in  any  other  coun- 
try; and  why  the  latter  have  endured  so  many  excessive 
pressures  and  extremities,  without  repining  more  generally 
at  the  unequal  distribution  of  fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society  may  also 
be  attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through  British  lit- 
erature; the  frequent  use  of  illustrations  from  rural  life; 
those  incomparable  descriptions  of  Nature  that  abound  in  the 
British  poets — that  have  continued  down  from  "the  Flower 
and  the  Leaf"  of  Chaucer,  and  have  brought  into  our  closets 
all  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  the  dewy  landscape.  The 
pastoral  writers  of  other  countries  appear  as  if  they  had  paid 
Nature  an  occasional  visit,  and  become  acquainted  with  her 
general  charms;  but  the  British  poets  have  lived  and  reveled 
with  her — they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts — 
they  have  watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could 
not  tremble  in  the  breeze — a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the 
ground — a  diamond  drop  could  not  patter  in  the  stream — a 
fragrance  could  not  exhale  from  the  humble  violet,  nor 
a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints  to  the  morning,  but  it  has 
been  noticed  by  these  impassioned  and  delicate  observers, 
"and  wrought  up  into  some  beautiful  morality. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to  rural  occu- 
pations has  been  wonderful  on  the  face  of  the  country.  A 
great  part  of  the  island  is  rather  level,  and  would  be  monoto- 
nous were  it  not  for  the  charms  of  culture ;  but  it  is  studded 
and  gemmed,  as  it  were,  with  castles  and  palaces,  and  em- 
broidered with  parks  and  gardens.  It  does  not  abound  in 
grand  and  sublime  prospects,  but  rather  in  little  home  scenes 
of  rural  repose  and  sheltered  quiet.  Every  antique  farm- 
house and  moss-grown  cottage  is  a  picture ;  and  as  the  roads 


112  U/orKs  of  U/a8t>ip$toi?  Irvii?<} 

are  continually  winding,  and  the  view  is  shut  in  by  groves 
and  hedges,  the  eye  is  delighted  by  a  continual  succession  of 
small  landscapes  of  captivating  loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery  is  the 
moral  feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated  in 
the  mind  with  ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober,  well-estab- 
lished principles,  of  hoary  usage  and  reverend  custom. 
Everything  seems  to  be  the  growth  of  ages  of  regular  and 
peaceful  existence.  The  old  church,  of  remote  architecture, 
with  its  low  massive  portal;  its  Gothic  tower;  its  windows, 
rich  with  tracery  and  painted  glass,  in  scrupulous  preserva- 
tion— its  stately  monuments  of  warriors  and  worthies  of  the 
olden  time,  ancestors  of  the  present  lords  of  the  soil — its 
tombstones,  recording  successive  generations  of  sturdy  yeo- 
manry, whose  progeny  still  plow  the  same  fields  and  kneel 
at  the  same  altar — the  parsonage,  a  quaint  irregular  pile, 
partly  antiquated,  but  repaired  and  altered  in  the  tastes  of 
various  ages  and  occupants — the  stile  and  footpath  leading 
from  the  churchyard,  across  pleasant  fields,  and  along  shady 
hedgerows,  according  to  an  immemorable  right  of  way — the 
neighboring  village,  with  its  venerable  cottages,  its  public 
green,  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which  the  forefathers  of  the 
present  race  have  sported— the  antique  family  mansion,  stand- 
ing apart  in  some  little  rural  domain,  but  looking  down  with 
a  protecting  air  on  the  surrounding  scene— all  these  common 
features  of  English  landscape  evince  a  calm  and  settled 
security,  a  hereditary  transmission  of  home-bred  virtues  and 
local  attachments  that  speak  deeply  and  touchingly  for  the 
moral  character  of  the  nation. 

It  is  a  pleasing  sight,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the 
bell  is  sending  its  sober  melody  across  the  quiet  fields,  to  be- 
hold the  peasantry  in  their  best  finery,  with  ruddy  faces,  and 
modest  cheerfulness,  thronging  tranquilly  along  the  green 
lanes  to  church ;  but  it  is  still  more  pleasing  to  see  them  in 
the  evenings,  gathering  about  their  cottage  doors,  and  ap- 
pearing to  exult  in  the  humble  comforts  and  embellishments 
which  their  own  hands  have  spread  around  them. 


113 

It  is  this  sweet  home  feeling,  this  settled  repose  of  affec- 
tion in  the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all,  the  parent  of  the 
steadiest  virtues  and  purest  enjoyments ;  and  I  cannot  close 
these  desultory  remarks  better  than  by  quoting  the  words  of 
a  modern  English  poet,  who  has  depicted  it  with  remarkable 
felicity : 

"Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crown'd  with  shade, 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  shelt'ring  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw-roof 'd  shed ; 
This  western  isle  hath  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place: 
Domestic  bliss,  that,  like  a  harmless  dove 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard), 
Can  center  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth ; 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  be  itself 
A  world  en  joy 'd  ;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers,  and  approving  Heaven ; 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft, 
Smiles,  though  'tis  looking  only  at  the  sky."* 


THE    BROKEN    HEART 


"I  never  heard 

Of  any  true  affection,  but  'twas  nipt 
With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose." 

—  MIDDLETON 

IT  is  a  common  practice  with  those  who  have  outMved 
the  susceptibility  of  early  feeling,  or  have  been  brought  up 
in  the  gay  heartlessness  of  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all  love 
stories,  and  to  treat  the  tales  of  romantic  passion  as  mere  fic- 
tions of  novelists  and  poets.  My  observations  on  human  nat- 

*From  a  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by  the 
Reverend  Rann  Kennedy,  A.M. 


114  U/orK»  of 

ure  have  induced  me  to  think  otherwise.  They  have  con- 
vinced me,  that  however  the  surface  of  the  character  may  be 
chilled  and  frozen  by  the  cares  of  the  world,  or  cultivated 
into  mere  smiles  by  the  arts  of  society,  still  there  are  dormant 
fires  lurking  in  the  depths  of  the  coldest  bosom,  which,  when 
once  enkindled,  become  impetuous,  and  are  sometimes  deso- 
lating in  their  effects.  Indeed,  I  am  a  true  believer  in  the 
blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full  extent  of  his  doctrines.  ^Shall 
I  confess  it? — I  believe  in  broken  hearts,  and  the  possibility 
of  dying  of  disappointed  love !  I  do  not,  however,  consider 
it  a  malady  often  fatal  to  my  own  sex ;  but  I  firmly  believe 
that  it  withers  down  many  a  lovely  woman  into  an  early 
grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His  nature 
leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the  world. 
Love  is  but  the  embellishment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song 
piped  hi  the  intervals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for 
fortune,  for  space  in  the  world's  thought,  and  dominion  over 
his  fellowmen.  But  a  woman's  whole  life  is  a  history  of  the 
affections.  The  heart  is  her  world ;  it  is  there  her  ambition 
strives  for  empire — it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden 
treasures.  She  sends  forth  her  sympathies  on  adventure; 
she  embarks  her  whole  soul  in  the  traffic  of  affection ;  and  if 
shipwrecked,  her  case  is  hopeless— for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of 
the  heart. 

To  a  man,  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion  some 
bitter  pangs :  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness — it  blasts 
some  prospects  of  felicity;  but  he  is  an  active  being;  he  may 
dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occupation,  or 
may  plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure ;  or,  if  the  scene  of  dis- 
appointment be  too  full  of  painful  associations,  he  can  shift 
his  abode  at  will,  and  taking,  as  it  were,  the  wings  of  the 
morning,  can  "fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and 
be  at  rest." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded  and  a 
meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings ;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers  of 


Tfce  SKetel?-BooK  115 

sorrow,  where  shall  she  look  for  consolation?  Her  lot  is  to 
be  wooed  and  won ;  and  if  unhappy  in  her  love,  her  heart  is 
like  some  fortress  that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked,  and 
abandoned,  and  left  desolate. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dun — how  many  soft  cheeks 
grow  pale— how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomb, 
and  none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness ! 
As  the  dove  will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and 
conceal  the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals — so  is  it  the 
nature  of  woman  to  hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of 
wounded  affection.  JThe  love  of  a  delicate  female  is  always 
shy  and  silent.  Even  when  fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes 
It  to  herself;  but  when  otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  re- 
cesses of  her  bosom,  and  there  lets  it  cower  and  brood  among 
the  ruins  of  her  peace.  "With  her,  the  desire  of  her  heart  has 
failed — the  great  charm  of  existence  is  at  an  end.  She  neg- 
lects all  the  cheerful  exercises  which  gladden  the  spirits, 
quicken  the  pulses,  and  send  the  tide  of  life  in  healthful  cur- 
rents through  the  veins.  Her  rest  is  broken — the  sweet  re- 
freshment of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  melancholy  dreams — "dry 
sorrow  drinks  her  blood, ' '  until  her  enfeebled  frame  sinks  un- 
der the  slightest  external  injury.  Look  for  her,  after  a  little 
while,  and  you  find  friendship  weeping  over  her  untimely 
grave,  and  wondering  that  one,  who  but  lately  glowed  with 
all  the  radiance  of  health  and  beauty,  should  so  speedily  be 
brought  down  to  "darkness  and  the  worm."  You  will  be 
told  of  some  wintry  chill,  some  casual  indisposition,  that  laid 
her  low — but  no  one  knows  the  mental  malady  that  previ- 
ously sapped  her  strength  and  made  her  so  easy  a  prey  to 
the  spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the 
grove :  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  but  with 
the  worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  wither- 
ing when  it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it 
drooping  its  branches  to  the  earth,  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf ; 
until,  wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the  stillness 
of  the  forest ;  and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin  we 


116  U/orks  of  U/a8l?ii7$toi)  Iruir?<? 

strive  in  vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could 
have  smitten  it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste 
and  self  -neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth, 
almost  as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven  ;  and  have  re- 
peatedly fancied  that  I  could  trace  their  deaths  through  the 
various  declensions  of  consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor, 
melancholy,  until  I  reached  the  first  symptom  of  disappointed 
love.  But  an  instance  of  the  kind  was  lately  told  to  me  ;  the 
circumstances  are  well  known  in  the  country  where  they 
happened,  and  I  shall  but  give  them  in  the  manner  in  which 
they  were  related. 

Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young 
the  Irish  patriot  :  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  for- 
gotten. During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  con- 
demned, and  executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate 
made  a  deep  impression  on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so 
young  —  so  intelligent—  so  generous  —  so  brave  —  so  everything 
that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under 
trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The  noble  indignation 
with  which  he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason  against  his  coun- 
try —  the  eloquent  vindication  of  his  name  —  and  his  pathetic 
appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation—  all 
these  entered  deeply  into  every  generous  bosom,  and  even  his 
enemies  lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart  whose  anguish  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes,  he 
had  won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved 
him  with  the  disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early 
love.  When  every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against 
him;  when  blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger 
darkened  around  his  name,  she  loved  him  the  more  ardently 
for  his  very  sufferings.  If,  then,  his  fate  could  awaken  the 
sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what  must  have  been  the  agony 
of  her  whose  soul  was  occupied  by  his  image?  Let  those  tell 
who  have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  be- 


' 

• 


Jl?e  SKetol?-BooK  117 

tween  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on  earth — who 
have  sat  at  its  threshold  as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely 
world,  from  whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had 
departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave! — so  frightful,  so 
dishonored!  There  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on 
that  could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those  ten- 
der, though  melancholy  circumstances,  that  endear  the  part- 
ing scene — nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears, 
sent,  like  the  dews  of  heaven,  to  revive  the  heart  in  the  part- 
ing hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attach- 
ment, and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could 
the  sympathy  and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a 
spirit  so  shocked  and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have 
experienced  no  want  of  consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  peo- 
ple of  quick  and  generous  sensibilities.  The  most  delicate 
and  cherishing  attentions  were  paid  her  by  families  of  wealth 
and  distinction.  She  was  led  into  society,  and  they  tried  by 
all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief, 
and  wean  her  from  the  tragical  story  of  her  loves.  But  it 
was  all  in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity  that 
scathe  and  scorch  the  soul — that  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of 
happiness — and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blos- 
som. She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure, 
but  she  was  as  much  alone  there  as  in  the  depths  of  solitude. 
She  walked  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently  unconscious  of 
the  world  around  her.  She  carried  with  her  an  inward  woe  that 
mocked  at  all  the  blandishments  of  friendship,  and  "heeded 
not  the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  mas-  \\ 
querade.  There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretched- 
ness more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a 
scene.  To  find  it  wandering  like  a  specter,  lonely  and  joy- 
less, where  all  around  is  gay — to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the 
trappings  of  mirth,  and  looking  so  wan  and  woebegone,  as  if 


118  U/orks  of  U/asl?ii)($toi>  Irvii}$ 

it  had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary 
forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through  the  splen- 
did rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction, 
she  sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and  look- 
ing about  for  some  tune  with  a  vacant  air,  that  showed  her 
insensibility  to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with  the  capri- 
ciousness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive  air. 
She  had  an  exquisite  voice;  but  on  this  occasion  it  was  so 
simple,  so  touching—  it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of  wretch- 
edness— that  she  drew  a  crowd,  mute  and  silent,  around  her, 
and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It 
completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his  ad- 
dresses to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could 
not  but  prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined  his  at- 
tentions, for  her  thoughts  were  irrecoverably  engrossed  by 
the  memory  of  her  former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in 
his  suit.  He  solicited  not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem. 
He  was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense 
of  her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation,  for  she  was  ex- 
isting on  the  kindness  of  friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length 
succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn  as- 
surance that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of 
scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She 
was  an  amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to 
be  a  happy  one;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  de- 
vouring melancholy  that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul. 
She  wasted  away  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at 
length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish  poet, 
composed  the  following  lines : 

'  'She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 
For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 


Tl?e  SKeterrBooK  £19 

"She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking— 
Ah!  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 
How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking! 

"He  had  lived  for  his  love — for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him — 
Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him! 

"Oh!  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 
hey'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow!" 


THE    ART    OF    BOOK-MAKING 

"If  that  severe  doom  of  Synesius  be  true — 'it  is  a  greater  offense  to 
steal  dead  men's  labors  than  their  clothes' — what  shall  become  of  most 
writers?"— BUTTON'S  Anatomy  of  Melancholy 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extreme  fecundity  of  the 
press,  and  how  it  conies  to  pass  that  so  many  heads,  on 
which  Nature  seems  to  have  inflicted  the  curse  of  barren- 
ness, yet  teem  with  voluminous  productions.  As  a  man 
travels  on,  however,  in  the  journey  of  life,  his  objects  of 
wonder  daily  diminish,  and  he  is  continually  finding  out 
some  very  simple  cause  for  some  great  matter  of  marvel. 
Thus  have  I  chanced,  in  my  peregrinations  about  this  great 
metropolis,  to  blunder  upon  a  scene  which  unfolded  to  me 
some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  book-making  craft,  and  at  once 
put  an  end  to  my  astonishment. 

.  I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the  great 
saloons  of  the  British  Museum,  with  that  listlessness  with 
which  one  is  apt  to  saunter  about  a  room  in  warm  weather; 
sometimes  lolling  over  the  glass  cases  of  minerals,  sometimes 
studying  the  hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyptian  mummy,  and 
sometimes  trying,  with  nearly  equal  success,  to  comprehend 


120  U/orK»  of 


the  allegorical  paintings  on  the  lofty  ceilings.  While  I  was 
gazing  about  in  this  idle  away  my  attention  was  attracted 
to  a  distant  floor,  at  the  end  of  a  suite  of  apartments.  It 
Was  closed,  but  every  now  and  then  it  would  open,  and  some 
strange-favQred  being,  generally  clothed  in  black,  would 
steal  forth,  and  glide  through  the  rooms,  without  noticing 
any  of  the  surrounding  objects.  There  was  an  air  of  mys- 
tery about  this  that  piqued  my  languid  curiosity,  and  I  de- 
termined to  attempt  the  passage  of  that  strait,  and  to  explore 
the  unknown  regions  that  lay  beyond.  The  door  yielded  to 
my  hand,  with  all  that  facility  with  which  the  portals  of  en- 
chanted castles  yield  to  the  adventurous  knight-errant.  I 
found  myself  in  a  spacious  chamber,  surrounded  with  great 
cases  of  venerable  books.  Above  the  cases,  and  just  under 
the  cornice,  were  arranged  a  great  number  of  quaint  black- 
looking  portraits  of  ancient  authors.  About  the  room  were 
placed  long  tables,  with  stands  for  reading  and  writing,  at 
which  sat  many  pale,  cadaverous  personages,  poring  intently 
over  dusty  volumes,  rummaging  among  mouldy  manuscripts, 
and  taking  copious  notes  of  their  contents.  The  most  hushed 
stillness  reigned  through  this  mysterious  apartment,  except- 
ing that  you  might  hear  the  racing  of  pens  over  sheets  of 
paper,  or,  occasionally,  the  deep  sigh  of  one  of  these  sages, 
as  he  shifted  his  position  to  turn  over  the  page  of  an  old  folio; 
doubtless  arising  from  that  hollowness  and  flatulency  inci- 
dent to  learned  research. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would  write  some- 
thing on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  ring  a  bell,  whereupon  a 
familiar  would  appear,  take  the  paper  in  profound  silence, 
glide  out  of  the  room,  and  return  shortly  loaded  with  ponder- 
ous tomes,  upon  which  the  other  would  fall,  tooth  and  nail, 
with  famished  voracity.  I  had  no  longer  a  doubt  that  I  had 
happened  upon  a  body  of  magi,  deeply  engaged  in  the  study 
of  occult  sciences.  The  scene  reminded  me  of  an  old  Arabian 
tale  of  a  philosopher,  who  was  shut  up  in  an  enchanted  li- 
brary, in  the  bosom  of  a  mountain  that  opened  only  once  a 
year;  where  he  made  the  spirits  of  the  place  obey  his  com- 


121 

mands,  and  bring  him  books  of  all  kinds  of  dark  knowledge, 
so  that  at  the  end  of  the  year,  when  the  magic  portal  once 
more  swung  open  on  its  hinges,  he  issued  forth  so  versed  in 
forbidden  lore  as  to  be  able  to  soar  above  the  heads  of  the 
multitude  and  to  control  the  powers  of  Nature. 

My  curiosity  being  now  fully  aroused,  I  whispered  to  one 
of  the  familiars,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  and 
begged  an  interpretation  of  the  strange  scene  before  me.  A 
few  words  were  sufficient  for  the  purpose :  I  found  that  these 
mysterious  personages,  whom  I  had  mistaken  for  magi,  were 
principally  authors,  and  were  in  the  very  act  of  manufactur- 
ing books.  I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  reading-room  of  the  great 
British  Library,  an  immense  collection  of  volumes  of  all  ages 
and  languages,  many  of  which  are  now  forgotten,  and  most 
of  which  are  seldom  read.  To  these  sequestered  pools  of  ob- 
solete literature,  therefore,  do  many  modern  authors  repair, 
and  draw  buckets  full  of  classic  lore,  or  "pure  English, 
undefiled,"  wherewith  to  swell  their  own  scanty  rills  of 
thought. 

Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  sat  down  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  watched  the  process  of  this  book  manufactory.  I 
noticed  one  lean,  bilious-looking  wight,  who  sought  none  but 
the  most  worm-eaten  volumes,  printed  in  black-letter.  He 
was  evidently  constructing  some  work  of  profound  erudition 
that  would  be  purchased  by  every  man  who  wished  to  be 
thought  learned,  placed  upon  a  conspicuous  shelf  of  his 
library  or  laid  open  upon  his  table — but  never  read.  I  ob- 
served hjm,  now  and  then,  draw  a  large  fragment  of  biscuit 
out  of  his  pocket,  and  gnaw ;  whether  it  was  his  dinner,  or 
whether  he  was  endeavoring  to  keep  off  that  exhaustion  of 
the  stomach,  produced  by  much  pondering  over  dry  worke, 
I  leave  to  harder  students  than  myself  to  determine. 

There  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in  bright-colored 
clothes,  with  a  chirping,  gossiping  expression  of  countenance, 
who  had  all  the  appearance  of  an  author  on  good  terms  with 
his  bookseller.  After  considering  him  attentively,  I  recog- 
nized in  him  a  diligent  getter-up  of  miscellaneous  works 
*  *  *6  VOL.  I. 


122  Works  of  \I/a8bir)$toi) 

which  bustled  off  well  with  the  trade.  I  was  curious  to  see 
how  he  manufactured  his  wares.  He  made  more  stir  and 
show  of  business  than  any  of  the  others;  dipping  into  vari- 
ous books,  fluttering  over  the  leaves  of  manuscripts,  taking 
a  morsel  out  of  one,  a  morsel  out  of  another,  "line  upon  line, 
precept  upon  precept,  here  a  little  and  there  a  little."  The 
contents  of  his  book  seemed  to  be  as  heterogeneous  as  those 
of  the  witches'  caldron  in  "Macbeth."  It  was  here  a  finger 
and  there  a  thumb,  toe  of  frog  and  blind  worm's  sting,  with 
his  own  gossip  poured  in  like  "baboon's  blood,"  to  make  the 
medley  "slab  and  good." 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  disposition  be 
implanted  in  authors  for  wise  purposes?  may  it  not  be  the 
way  in  which  Providence  has  taken  care  that  the  seeds  of 
knowledge  and  wisdom  shall  be  preserved  from  age  to  age, 
in  spite  of  the  inevitable  decay  of  the  works  in  which  they 
were  first  produced?  We  see  that  Nature  has  wisely,  though 
whimsically,  provided  for  the  conveyance  of  seeds  from  clime 
to  clime,  in  the  maws  of  certain  birds ;  so  that  animals,  which, 
in  themselves,  are  little  better  than  carrion,  and  apparently 
the  lawless  plunderers  of  the  orchard  and  the  corn-field,  are, 
in  fact,  Nature's  carriers  to  disperse  and  perpetuate  her  bless- 
ings. 'In  like  manner,  the  beauties  and  fine  thoughts  of  an- 
cient and  obsolete  writers  are  caught  up  by  these  flights  of 
predatory  authors,  and  cast  forth,  again  to  flourish  and  bear 
fruit  in  a  remote  and  distant  tract  of  time.  Many  of  their 
works,  also,  undergo  a  kind  of  metempsychosis,  and  spring 
up  under  new  forms.  What  was  formerly  a  ponderous  his- 
tory revives  in  the  shape  of  a  romance — an  old  legend 
changes  into  a  modern  play — and  a  sober,  philosophical 
treatise  furnishes  the  body  for  a  whole  series  of  bouncing 
and  sparkling  essays.  Thus  it  is  in  the  clearing  of  our 
American  woodlands;  where  we  burn  down  a  forest  of 
stately  pines,  a  progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start  up  in  their 
place ;  and  we  never  see  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  tree,  mould- 
ering into  soil,  but  it  gives  birth  to  a  whole  tribe  of  fungi. 

Let  us  not,  then,  lament  over  the  decay  and  oblivion  into 


123 

which  ancient  writers  descend;  they  do  but  submit  to  the 
great  law  of  Nature,  which  declares  that  all  sublunary  shapes 
of  matter  shall  be  limited  in  their  duration,  but  which  de- 
crees, also,  that  their  elements  shall  never  perish.  Genera- 
tion after  generation,  both  in  animal  and  vegetable  life, 
passes  way,  but  the  vital  principle  is  transmitted  to  poster- 
ity, and  the  species  continue  to  flourish.  Thus,  also,  do 
authors  beget  authors,  and,  having  produced  a  numerous 
progeny,  in  a  good  old  age  they  sleep  with  their  fathers; 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  authors  who  preceded  them — and 
from  whom  they  had  stolen. 

While  I  was  indulging  in  these  rambling  fancies  I  had 
leaned  my  head  against  a  pile  of  reverend  folios.  Whether 
it  was  owing  to  the  soporific  emanations  from  these  works; 
or  to  the  profound  quiet  of  the  room ;  or  to  the  lassitude  aris- 
ing from  much  wandering ;  or  to  an  unlucky  habit  of  napping 
at  improper  times  and  places,  with  which  I  am  grievously 
afflicted,  so  it  was  that  I  fell  into  a  doze.  Still,  however,  my 
imagination  continued  busy,  and  indeed  the  same  scene  re- 
mained before  my  mind's  eye,  only  a  little  changed  in  some 
of  the  details.  I  dreamed  that  the  chamber  was  still  deco- 
rated with  the  portraits  of  ancient  authors,  but  the  number 
was  increased.  The  long  tables  had  disappeared,  and  in 
place  of  the  sage  magi,  I  beheld  a  ragged,  threadbare  throng, 
such  as  may  be  seen  plying  about  the  great  repository  of  cast- 
off  clothes,  Monmouth  Street.  Whenever  they  seized  upon 
a  book,  by  one  of  those  incongruities  common  to  dreams,  me- 
thought  it  turned  into  a  garment  of  foreign  or  antique  fash- 
ion, with  which  they  proceeded  to  equip  themselves.  I  no- 
ticed, however,  that  no  one  pretended  to  clothe  himself  from 
any  particular  suit,  but  took  a  sleeve  from  one,  a  cape  from 
another,  a  skirt  from  a  third,  thus  decking  himself  out  piece- 
meal, while  some  of  his  original  rags  would  peep  out  from 
among  his  borrowed  finery. 

There  was  a  portly,  rosy,  well-fed  parson,  whom  I  ob- 
served ogling  several  mouldy  polemical  writers  through  an 
eyeglass.  He  soon  contrived  to  slip  on  the  voluminous 


124  U/orKs  of  U/asl?io$tor)  Iruii><$ 

mantle  of  one  of  the  old  fathers,  and  having  purloined  the 
gray  beard  of  another,  endeavored  to  look  exceedingly  wise ; 
but  the  smirking  commonplace  of  his  countenance  set  at 
naught  all  the  trappings  of  wisdom.  One  sickly-looking 
gentleman  was  busied  embroidering  a  very  flimsy  garment 
with  gold  thread  drawn  out  of  several  old  court-dresses  of 
the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Another  had  trimmed  him- 
self magnificently  from  an  illuminated  manuscript,  had  stuck 
a  nosegay  in  his  bosom,  culled  from  "The  Paradise  of  Dainty 
Devices,"  and  having  put  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  hat  on  one  side 
of  his  head,  strutted  off  with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar  ele- 
gance. A  third,  who  was  but  of  puny  dimensions,  had  bol- 
stered himself  out  bravely  with  the  spoils  from  several  ob- 
scure tracts  of  philosophy,  so  that  he  had  a  very  imposing 
front,  but  he  was  lamentably  tattered  in  rear,  and  I  per- 
ceived that  he  had  patched  his  small-clothes  with  scraps  of 
parchment  from  a  Latin  author. 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  is  true,  who 
only  helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so,  which  sparkled  among 
their  own  ornaments,  without  eclipsing  them.  Some,  too, 
seemed  to  contemplate  the  costumes  of  the  old  writers,  merely 
to  imbibe  their  principles  of  taste,  and  to  catch  their  air  and 
spirit ;  but  I  grieve  to  say  that  too  many  were  apt  to  array 
themselves,  from  top  to  toe,  in  the  patchwork  manner  I 
have  mentioned.  I  should  not  omit  to  speak  of  one  genius, 
in  drab  breeches  and  gaiters,  and  an  Arcadian  hat,  who  had 
a  violent  propensity  to  the  pastoral,  but  whose  rural  wander- 
ings had  been  confined  to  the  classic  haunts  of  Primrose  Hill, 
and  the  solitudes  of  the  Regent's  Park.  He  had  decked 
himself  in  wreaths  and  ribbons  from  all  the  old  pastoral 
poets,  and,  hanging  his  head  on  one  side,  went  about  with  a 
fantastical,  lackadaisical  air,  "babbling  about  green  fields." 
But  the  personage  that  most  struck  my  attention  was  a 
pragmatical  old  gentleman,  in  clerical  robes,  with  a  remark- 
ably large  and  square  but  bald  head.  He  entered  the  room 
wheezing  and  puffing,  elbowed  his  way  through  the  throng, 
with  a  look  of  sturdy  self-confidence,  and,  having  laid  hands 


Jl?e  SKetel?-BooK  125 

upon  a  thick  Greek  quarto,  clapped  it  upon  his  head  and 
swept  majestically  away  in  a  formidable  frizzled  wig. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade  a  cry  suddenly 
resounded  from  every  side,  of  "thieves!  thieves!"  I  looked, 
and  lo !  the  portraits  about  the  walls  became  animated !  The 
old  authors  thrust  out  first  a  head,  then  a  shoulder,  from  the 
canvas,  looked  down  curiously,  for  an  instant,  upon  the  mot- 
ley throng,  and  then  descended,  with  fury  in  their  eyes,  to 
claim  their  rifled  property.  The  scene  of  scampering  and 
hubbub  that  ensued  baffles  all  description.  The  unhappy 
culprits  endeavored  in  vain  to  escape  with  their  plunder. 
On  one  side  might  be  seen  half  a  dozen  old  monks,  stripping 
a  modern  professor;  on  another,  there  was  sad  devastation 
carried  into  the  ranks  of  modern  dramatic  writers.  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  side  by  side,  raged  round  the  field  like 
Castor  and  Pollux,  and  sturdy  Ben  Jonson  enacted  more 
wonders  "than  when  a  volunteer  with  the  army  in  Flanders. 
As  to  the  dapper  little  compiler  of  farragos,  mentioned  some 
time  since,  he  had  arrayed  himself  in  as  many  patches  and 
colors  as  Harlequin,  and  there  was  as  fierce  a  contention  of 
claimants  about  him  as  about  the  dead  body  of  Patroclus.  I 
was  grieved  to  see  many  men,  whom  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  look  upon  with  awe  and  reverence,  fain  to  steal  off  with 
scarce  a  rag  to  cover  their  nakedness.  Just  then  my  eye 
was  caught  by  the  pragmatical  old  gentleman  in  the  Greek 
grizzled  wig,  who  was  scrambling  away  in  sore  affright  with 
half  a  score  of  authors  in  full  cry  after  him.  They  were 
close  upon  his  haunches;  in  a  twinkling  off  went  his  wig;  at 
every  turn  some  strip  of  raiment  was  peeled  away ;  until  in  a 
few  moments,  from  his  domineering  pomp,  he  shrunk  into 
a  little  pursy,  "chopp'd  bald  shot,"  and  made  his  exit  with 
only  a  few  tags  and  rags  fluttering  at  his  back. 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catastrophe  of 
this  learned  Theban  that  I  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of 
laughter,  which  broke  the  whole  illusion.  The  tumult  and 
the  scuffle  were  at  an  end.  The  chamber  resumed  its  usual 
appearance.  The  old  authors  shrunk  back  into  their  picture- 


126  U/orl^s  of  U/a8l?ii}$toi) 

frames,  and  hung  in  shadowy  solemnity  along  the  walls.  In 
short,  I  found  myself  wide  awake  in  my  corner,  with  the 
whole  assemblage  of  bookworms  gazing  at  me  with  astonish- 
ment. Nothing  of  the  dream  had  been  real  but  my  burst  of 
laughter,  a  sound  never  before  heard  in  that  grave  sanctuary, 
and  so  abhorrent  to  the  ears  of  wisdom  as  to  electrify  the 
fraternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  demanded 
whether  I  had  a  card  of  admission.  At  first  I  did  not  com- 
prehend him,  but  I  soon  found  that  the  library  was  a  kind 
of  literary  "preserve,"  subject  to  game  laws,  and  that  no 
one  must  presume  to  hunt  there  without  special  license  and 
permission.  In  a  word,  I  stood  convicted  of  being  an  arrant 
poacher,  and  was  glad  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat,  lest  I 
should  have  a  whole  pack  of  authors  let  loose  upon  me. 


A    ROYAL    POET 

"Though  your  body  be  confined 

And  soft  love  a  prisoner  bound, 
Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 

Neither  cheek  nor  chain  hath  found. 
Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear." — FLETCHER 

ON  a  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial  month  of  May  I 
made  an  excursion  to  Windsor  Castle.  It  is  a  place  full  of 
storied  and  poetical  associations.  The  very  external  aspect 
of  the  proud  old  pile  is  enough  to  inspire  high  thought.  It 
rears  its  irregular  walls  and  massive  towers  like  a  mural 
crown  around  the  brow  of  a  lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal  ban- 
ner in  the  clouds,  and  looks  down  with  a  lordly  air  upon  the 
surrounding  world. 

On  this  morning,  the  weather  was  of  this  voluptuous 
vernal  kind  which  calls  forth  all  the  latent  romance  of  a 
man's  temperament,  filling  his  mind  with  music,  and  dispos- 


The  SKeteI?-Book  127 

ing  him  to  quote  poetry  and  dream  of  beauty.  In  wander- 
ing through  the  magnificent  saloons  and  long  echoing  gal- 
leries of  the  castle,  I  passed  with  indifference  by  whole  rows 
of  portraits  of  warriors  and  statesmen,  but  lingered  in  the 
chamber  where  hang  the  likenesses  of  the  beauties  that 
graced  the  gay  court  of  Charles  the  Second;  and  as  I  gazed 
upon  them,  depicted  with  amorous  half-disheveled  tresses, 
and  the  sleepy  eye  of  love,  I  blessed  the  pencil  of  Sir  Peter 
Lely,  which  had  thus  enabled  me  to  bask  in  the  reflected 
rays  of  beauty.  In  traversing  also  the  "large  green  courts," 
with  sunshine  beaming  on  the  gray  walls  and  glancing  along 
the  velvet  turf,  my  mind  was  engrossed  with  the  image  of 
the  tender,  the  gallant,  but  hapless  Surrey,  and  his  account 
of  his  loiterings  about  them  in  his  stripling  days,  when 
enamored  of  the  Lady  Geraldine — 

"With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 
With  easie  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  in  love." 

In  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility,  I  visited  the 
ancient  keep  of  the  castle,  where  James  the  First  of  Scot- 
land, the  pride  and  theme  of  Scottish  poets  and  historians, 
was  for  many  years  of  his  youth  detained  a  prisoner  of  state. 
It  is  a  large  gray  tower,  that  has  stood  the  brunt  of  ages, 
and  is  still  in  good  preservation.  It  stands  on  a  mound 
which  elevates  it  above  the  other  parts  of  the  castle,  and  a 
great  flight  of  steps  leads  to  the  interior.  In  the  armory, 
which  is  a  gothic  hall,  furnished  with  weapons  of  various 
kinds  and  ages,  I  was  shown  a  coat  of  armor  hanging  against 
the  wall,  which  I  was  told  had  once  belonged  to  James. 
From  hence  I  was  conducted  up  a  staircase  to  a  suite  of 
apartments  of  faded  magnificence,  hung  with  storied  tapes- 
try, which  formed  his  prison,  and  the  scene  of  that  passionate 
and  fanciful  amour  which  has  woven  into  the  web  of  his 
story  the  magical  hues  of  poetry  and  fiction. 

The  whole  history  of  this  amiable  but  unfortunate  prince 
is  highly  romantic.  At  the  tender  age  of  eleven  he  was  sent 
from  his  home  by  his  father,  Robert  III.,  and  destined  for 


of 

the  French  court,  to  be  reared  under  the  eye  of  the  French 
monarch,  secure  from  the  treachery  and  danger  that  sur- 
rounded the  royal  house  of  Scotland.  It  was  his  mishap,  in 
the  course  of  his  voyage,  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  En- 
glish, and  he  was  detained  a  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.,  not- 
withstanding that  a  truce  existed  between  the  two  countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the  train  of 
many  sorrows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal  to  his  unhappy 
father. 

"The  news,"  we  are  told,  "was  brought  to  him  while  at 
supper,  and  did  so  overwhelm  him  with  grief  that  he  was  al- 
most ready  to  give  up  the  ghost  into  the  hands  of  the  ser- 
vants that  attended  him.  But  being  carried  to  his  bedcham- 
ber, he  abstained  from  all  food,  and  in  three  days  died  of 
hunger  and  grief,  at  Rothesay."  * 

James  was  detained  in  captivity  above  eighteen  years; 
but,  though  deprived  of  personal  liberty,  he  was  treated  with 
the  respect  due  to  his  rank.  Care  was  taken  to  instruct  him 
in  all  the  branches  of  useful  knowledge  cultivated  at  that 
period,  and  to  give  him  those  mental  and  personal  accomplish- 
ments deemed  proper  for  a  prince.  Perhaps  in  this  respect, 
his  imprisonment  was  an  advantage,  as  it  enabled  him  to  ap- 
ply himself  the  more  exclusively  to  his  improvement,  and 
quietly  to  imbibe  that  rich  fund  of  knowledge,  and  to  cherish 
those  elegant  tastes,  which  have  given  such  a  luster  to  his 
memory.  The  picture  drawn  of  him  in  early  life,  by  the 
Scottish  historians,  is  highly  captivating,  and  seems  rather 
the  description  of  a  hero  of  romance  than  of  a  character  in 
real  history.  He  was  well  learned,  we  are  told,  "to  fight 
with  the  sword,  to  joust,  to  tournay,  to  wrestle,  to  sing  and 
dance ;  he  was  an  expert  mediciner,  right  crafty  in  playing 
both  of  lute  and  harp,  and  sundry  other  instruments  of  music, 
and  was  expert  in  grammar,  oratory,  and  poetry."  f 

With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate  accomplish- 
ments, fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  active  and  elegant  life, 

*  Buchanan.  f  Ballenden's  translation  of  Hector  Boyce. 


fl?e  SKetel?-BooK  129 

and  calculated  to  give  him  an  intense  relish  for  joyous  exist- 
ence, it  must  have  been  a  severe  trial,  in  an  age  of  bustle 
and  chivalry,  to  pass  the  springtime  of  his  years  in  monoto- 
nous captivity.  It  was  the  good  fortune  of  James,  however, 
to  be  gifted  with  a  powerful  poetic  fancy,  and  to  be  visited 
in  his  prison  by  the  choicest  inspirations  of  the  muse.  Some 
minds  corrode,  and  grow  inactive,  under  the  loss  of  personal 
liberty ;  others  grow  morbid  and  irritable ;  but  it  is  the  nat- 
ure of  the  poet  to  become  tender  and  imaginative  in  the 
loneliness  of  confinement.  He  banquets  upon  the  honey  of 
his  own  thoughts,  and,  like  the  captive  bird,  pours  forth  his 
soul  in  melody. 

"Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 
In  that  her  lonely  hermitage! 

Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove."* 

Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  imagination  that 
it  is  irrepressible,  unconfinable ;  that  when  the  real  world  is 
shut  out  it  can  create  a  world  for  itself,  and,  with  necro- 
mantic power,  can  conjure  up  glorious  shapes  and  forms, 
and  brilliant  visions,  to  make  solitude  populous  and  irradiate 
the  gloom  of  the  dungeon.  Such  was  the  world  of  pomp 
and  pageant  that  lived  round  Tasso  in  his  dismal  cell  at  Fer- 
rara,  when  he  conceived  the  splendid  scenes  of  his  Jerusalem ; 
and  we  may  conceive  the  "King's  Quair,"  f  composed  by 
James  during  his  captivity  at  Windsor,  as  another  of  those 
beautiful  breakings  forth  of  the  soul  from  the  restraint  and 
gloom  of  the  prison-house. 

The  subject  of  his  poem  is  his  love  for  the  lady  Jane 
Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  a  princess 
of  the  blood-royal  of  England,  of  whom  he  became  enamored 
in  the  course  of  his  captivity.  What  gives  it  peculiar  value 
is,  that  it  may  be  considered  a  transcript  of  the  royal  bard's 

*  Roger  L'Estrange.  f  Quair,  an  old  term  for  Book. 


130  U/orks  of  a/asl?ii?$toi) 

true  feelings,  and  the  story  of  his  real  loves  and  fortunes.  It 
is  not  often  that  sovereigns  write  poetry,  or  that  poets  deal 
in  fact.  It  is  gratifying  to  the  pride  of  a  common  man  to 
find  a  monarch  thus  suing,  as  it  were,  for  admission  into  his 
closet,  and  seeking  to  win  his  favor  by  administering  to  his 
pleasures.  It  is  a  proof  of  the  honest  equality  of  intellectual 
competition,  which  strips  off  all  the  trappings  of  factitious  dig- 
nity, brings  the  candidate  down  to  a  level  with  his  fellowmen, 
and  obliges  him  to  depend  on  his  own  native  powers  for  dis- 
tinction. It  is  curious,  too,  to  get  at  the  history  of  a  mon- 
arch's heart,  and  to  find  the  simple  affections  of  human  nat- 
ure throbbing  under  the  ermine.  But  James  had  learned  to 
be  a  poet  before  he  was  a  king ;  he  was  schooled  in  adversity, 
and  reared  in  the  company  of  his  own  thoughts.  Monarchs 
have  seldom  time  to  parley  with  their  hearts,  or  to  meditate 
their  minds  into  poetry;  and  had  James  been  brought  up 
amid  the  adulation  and  gayety  of  a  court  we  should  never, 
in  all  probability,  have  had  such  a  poem  as  the  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  interested  by  those  parts  of  the 
poem  which  breathe  his  immediate  thoughts  concerning  his 
situation,  or  which  are  connected  with  the  apartment  in  the 
tower.  They  have  thus  a  personal  and  local  charm,  and 
are  given  with  such  circumstantial  truth,  as  to  make  the 
reader  present  with  the  captive  in  his  prison  and  the  com- 
panion of  his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  weariness  of 
spirit,  and  of  the  incident  that  first  suggested  the  idea  of 
writing  the  poem.  It  was  the  still  mid-watch  of  a  clear 
moonlight  night ;  the  stars,  he  says,  were  twinkling  as  the 
fire  in  the  high  vault  of  heaven,  and  "Cynthia  rinsing  her 
golden  locks  in  Aquarius" — he  lay  in  bed  wakeful  and  rest- 
less, and  took  a  book  to  beguile  the  tedious  hours.  The  book 
he  chose  was  Boetius'  "Consolations  of  Philosophy,"  a  work 
popular  among  the  writers  of  that  day,  and  which  had  been 
translated  by  his  great  prototype  Chaucer.  From  the  high 
eulogium  in  which  he  indulges,  it  is  evident  this  was  one  of 
his  favorite  volumes  while  in  prison ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  an  ad- 


Jl?e  Sketeb-BooK  131 

mirable  text-book  for  meditation  under  adversity.  It  is  the 
legacy  of  a  noble  and  enduring  spirit,  purified  by  sorrow  and 
suffering,  bequeathing  to  its  successors  in  calamity  the  max- 
ims of  sweet  morality,  and  the  trains  of  eloquent  but  simple 
reasoning,  by  which  it  was  enabled  to  bear  up  against  the 
various  ills  of  Me.  It  is  a  talisman  which  the  unfortunate 
may  treasure  up  in  his  bosom,  or,  like  the  good  King  James, 
lay  upon  his  nightly  pillow. 

After  closing  the, volume,  he  turns  its  contents  over  in  his 
mind,  and  gradually  falls  into  a  fit  of  musing  on  the  fickle- 
ness of  fortune,  the  vicissitudes  of  his  own  life,  and  the  evils 
that  had  overtaken  him  even  in  his  tender  youth.  Suddenly 
he  hears  the  bell  ringing  to  matins,  but  its  sound  chiming  in 
with  his  melancholy  fancies  seems  to  him  like  a  voice  ex- 
horting him  to  write  his  story.  In  the  spirit  of  poetic  erran- 
try, he  determines  to  comply  with  this  intimation ;  he  there- 
fore takes  pen  in  hand,  makes  with  it  a  sign  of  the  cross,  to 
implore  a  benediction,  and  sallies  forth  into  the  fairyland  of 
poetry.  There  is  something  extremely  fanciful  in  all  this, 
and  it  is  interesting  as  furnishing  a  striking  and  beautiful 
instance  of  the  simple  manner  in  which  whole  trains  of  poeti- 
cal thought  are  sometimes  awakened,  and  literary  enterprises 
suggested  to  the  mind. 

In  the  course  of  his  poem,  he  more  than  once  bewails  the 
peculiar  hardness  of  his  fate,  thus  doomed  to  lonely  and  in- 
active life,  and  shut  up  from  the  freedom  and  pleasure  of  the 
world,  in  which  the  meanest  animal  indulges  unrestrained. 
There  is  a  sweetness,  however,  hi  his  very  complaints;  they 
are  the  lamentations  of  an  amiable  and  social  spirit,  at  being 
denied  the  indulgence  of  its  kind  and  generous  propensities ; 
there  is  nothing  in  them  harsh  or  exaggerated;  they  flow 
with  a  natural  and  touching  pathos,  and  are  perhaps  ren- 
dered more  touching  by  their  simple  brevity.  They  con- 
trast finely  with  those  elaborate  and  iterated  repinings  which 
we  sometimes  meet  with  in  poetry,  the  effusions  of  morbid 
minds,  sickening  under  miseries  of  their  own  creating,  and 
venting  their  bitterness  upon  an  unoffending  world.  James 


132  UYorKs  of  U/asl?ii?<$toi?  Irvir>$ 

speaks  of  his  privations  with  acute  sensibility ;  but  having 
mentioned  them,  passes  on,  as  if  his  manly  mind  disdained 
to  brood  over  unavoidable  calamities.  When  such  a  spirit 
breaks  forth  into  complaint,  however  brief,  we  are  aware 
how  great  must  be  the  suffering  that  extorts  the  murmur. 
We  sympathize  with  James,  a  romantic,  active,  and  accom- 
plished prince,  cut  off  in  the  lustihood  of  youth  from  all  the 
enterprise,  the  noble  uses  and  vigorous  delights  of  life,  as  we 
do  with  Milton,  alive  to  all  the  beauties  of  nature  and  glories 
of  art,  when  he  breathes  forth  brief  but  deep-toned  lamenta- 
tions over  his  perpetual  blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic  artifice,  we 
might  almost  have  suspected  that  these  lowerings  of  gloomy 
reflection  were  meant  as  preparative  to  the  brightest  scene  of 
his  story,  and  to  contrast  with  that  effulgence  of  light  and 
loveliness,  that  exhilarating  accompaniment  of  bird,  and 
song,  and  foliage,  and  flower,  and  all  the  revel  of  the  year, 
with  which  he  ushers  in  the  lady  of  his  heart.  It  is  this 
scene  in  particular  which  throws  all  the  magic  of  romance 
about  the  old  castle  keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says,  at  day- 
break, according  to  custom,  to  escape  from  the  dreary  medi- 
tations of  a  sleepless  pillow.  "Bewailing  in  his  chamber  thus 
alone,"  despairing  of  all  joy  and  remedy,  "for,  tired  of 
thought,  and  woebegone,"  he  had  wandered  to  the  window 
to  indulge  the  captive's  miserable  solace  of  gazing  wistfully 
upon  the  world  from  which  he  is  excluded.  The  window 
looked  forth  upon  a  small  garden  which  lay  at  the  foot  of  the 
tower.  It  was  a  quiet,  sheltered'  spot,  adorned  with  arbors 
and  green  alleys,  and  protected  from  the  passing  gaze  by 
trees  and  hawthorn  hedges. 

"Now  was  there  made  fast  by  the  tower's  walk 

A  garden  faire,  and  in  the  corners  set, 
An  arbour  green  with  wandis  long  and  small 

Railed  about,  and  so  with  leaves  beset 
Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet. 

That  lyf*  was  none,  walkyng  there  forbye, 

That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espye. 

*Lyf,  person. 


T^e  SKetel?-BooK  133 

"So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene, 
Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 
And  midst  of  every  arbour  might  be  seen 

The  sharpe,  grene,  swete  juniper, 
Growing  so  faire  with  branches  here  and  there. 
That  as  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without, 
The  boughs  did  spread  the  arbour  all  about. 

"And  on  the  small  green  twistis*set 

The  lytel  swete  nyghtingales,  and  sung 

So  loud  and  clere,  the  hymnis  consecrate 
Of  lovis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 

That  all  the  garden  and  the  wallis  rung 
Ryght  of  their  song—" 

It  was  the  month  of  May,  when  everything  was  in  bloom, 
and  he  interprets  the  song  of  the  nightingale  into  the  lan- 
guage of  his  enamored  feeling. 

"Worship  all  ye  that  lovers  be  this  May ; 

For  of  your  bliss  the  kalends  are  begun, 
And  sing  with  us,  away,  winter,  away, 
Come,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  gun." 

As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  the  notes  of  the 
birds,  he  gradually  lapses  into  one  of  those  tender  and  unde- 
finable  reveries  which  fill  the  youthful  bosom  in  this  deli- 
cious season.  He  wonders  what  this  love  may  be,  of  which 
he  has  so  often  read,  and  which  thus  seems  breathed  forth  in 
the  quickening  breath  of  May,  and  melting  all  nature  into 
ecstasy  and  song.  If  it  really  be  so  great  a  felicity,  and  if  it 
be  a  boon  thus  generally  dispensed  to  the  most  insignificant 
of  beings,  why  is  he  alone  cut  off  from  its  enjoyments? 

"Oft  would  I  think,  O  Lord,  what  may  this  be, 

That  love  is  of  such  noble  myght  and  kynde? 
Loving  his  folk,  and  such  prosperitee, 
Is  it  of  him,  as  we  in  books  do  find ; 
May  he  oure  hertes  settenf  and  unbynd. 

*  Twistis,  small  boughs  or  twigs.  f  Setten,  incline. 

NOTE.— The  language  of  the  quotations  is  generally  modernized. 


134  U/orK»  of 


Hath  he  upon  oure  hertes  such  maistrye? 
Or  is  all  this  but  feynit  fantasye? 
For  giff  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  care  and  charge, 
What  have  I  gilt*  to  him,  or  done  offense, 
That  I  am  thral'd  and  birdis  go  at  large?" 

In  the  midst  of  his  musing,  as  he  casts  his  eyes  down- 
ward, he  beholds  "the  fairest  and  the  freshest  young  floure" 
that  ever  he  had  seen.  It  is  the  lovely  Lady  Jane,  walking 
in  the  garden  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  that  "fresh  May  mor- 
rowe.*"  Breaking  thus  suddenly  upon  his  sight  in  a  moment 
of  loneliness  and  excited  susceptibility,  she  at  once  captivates 
the  fancy  of  the  romantic  prince,  and  becomes  the  object  of 
his  wandering  wishes,  the  sovereign  of  his  ideal  world. 

There  is  in  this  charming  scene  an  evident  resemblance  to 
the  early  part  of  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale,  where  Palamon 
and  Arcite  fall  in  love  with  Emilia,  whom  they  see  walking 
in  the  garden  of  their  prison.  Perhaps  the  similarity  of  the 
actual  fact  to  the  incident  which  he  had  read  in  Chaucer 
may  have  induced  James  to  dwell  on  it  in  his  poem.  His 
description  of  the  Lady  Jane  is  given  in  the  picturesque  and 
minute  manner  of  his  master,  and  being,  doubtless,  taken 
from  the  life,  is  a  perfect  portrait  of  a  beauty  of  that  day. 
He  dwells  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover  on  every  article  of  her 
apparel,  from  the  net  of  pearl,  splendent  with  emeralds  and 
sapphires,  that  confined  her  golden  hair,  even  to  the  "goodly 
chaine  of  small  orfeverye"  f  about  her  neck,  whereby  there 
hung  a  ruby  in  shape  of  a  heart,  that  seemed,  he  says,  like 
a  spark  of  fire  burning  upon  her  white  bosom.  Her  dress 
of  white  tissue  was  looped  up,  to  enable  her  to  walk  with 
more  freedom.  She  was  accompanied  by  two  female  attend- 
ants, and  about  her  sported  a  little  hound  decorated  with 
bells,  probably  the  small  Italian  hound,  of  exquisite  sym- 
metry, which  was  a  parlor  favorite  and  pet  among  the  fash- 
ionable dames  of  ancient  times.  James  closes  his  description 
by  a  burst  of  general  eulogium  : 

*  Oilt,  what  injury  have  I  done,  etc.  f  Wrought  gold. 


135 

"In  her  was  youth,  beauty  with  humble  port, 

Bountee,  richesse,  and  womanly  feature, 
God  better  knows  than  my  pen  can  report, 

Wisdom,  largesse,*  estate,f  and  cunning:}:  sure. 
In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 
*          In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 

That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance." 

The  departure  of  the  Lady  Jane  from  the  garden  puts 
an  end  to  this  transient  riot  of  the  heart.  With  her  departs 
the  amorous  illusion  that  had  shed  a  temporary  charm  over 
the  scene  of  his  captivity,  and  he  relapses  into  loneliness, 
now  rendered  tenfold  more  intolerable  by  this  passing  beam 
of  unattainable  beauty.  Through  the  long  and  weary  day 
he  repines  at  his  unhappy  lot,  and  when  evening  approaches 
and  Phcebus,  as  he  beautifully  expresses  it,  had  "bade  fare- 
well to  every  leaf  and  flower,"  he  still  lingers  at  the  window, 
and,  laying  his  head  upon  the  cold  stone,  gives  vent  to  a 
mingled  flow  of  love  and  sorrow,  until,  gradually  lulled  by 
the  mute  melancholy  of  the  twilight  hour,  he  lapses,  "half- 
sleeping,  half -swoon,"  into  a  vision,  which  occupies  the  re- 
mainder of  the  poem,  and  in  which  is  allegorically  shadowed 
out  the  history  of  his  passion. 

"When  he  wakes  from  his  trance  he  rises  from  his  stony 
pillow,  and,  pacing  his  apartment  full  of  dreary  reflections, 
questions  his  spirit  whither  it  has  been  wandering ;  whether, 
indeed,  all  that  has  passed  before  his  dreaming  fancy  has 
been  conjured  up  by  preceding  circumstances,  or  whether  it 
is  a  vision  intended  to  comfort  and  assure  him  in  his  de- 
spondence. If  the  latter,  he  prays  that  some  token  may  be 
sent  to  confirm  the  promise  of  happier  days,  given  him  in  his 
slumbers. 

Suddenly  a  turtle-dove  of  the  purest  whiteness  comes  nyr 
ing  in  at  the  window,  and  alights  upon  his  hand,  bearing  in 
her  bill  a  branch  of  red  gilliflower,  on  the  leaves  of  which  is 
written  in  letters  of  gold  the  following  sentence : 

*  Largesse,  bounty,     f  Estate,  dignity,      t  Cunning,  discretion. 


136  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii?<$toi)  Iruir?<} 

"Awake!  awake!  I  bring,  lover,  T  bring 

The  newis  glad,  that  blissful  is  and  sure, 
Of  thy  comfort;  now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
For  in  the  heaven  decretit  is  thy  cure." 

He  receives  the  branch  with  mingled  hope  and* dread; 
reads  it  with  rapture,  and  this  he  says  was  the  first  token  of 
his  succeeding  happiness.  "Whether  this  is  a  mere  poetic  fic- 
tion, or  whether  the  Lady  Jane  did  actually  send  him  a  token 
of  her  favor  in  this  romantic  way,  remains  to  be  determined 
according  to  the  faith  or  fancy  of  the  reader.  He  concludes 
his  poem  by  intimating  that  the  promise  conveyed  in  the 
vision,  and  by  the  flower,  is  fulfilled  by  his  being  restored  to 
liberty,  and  made  happy  in  the  possession  of  the  sovereign  of 
his  heart. 

Such  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James  of  his  love 
adventures  in  Windsor  Castle.  How  much  of  it  is  absolute 
fact,  and  how  much  the  embellishment  of  fancy,  it  is  fruit- 
less to  conjecture ;  do  not,  however,  let  us  always  consider 
whatever  is  romantic  as  incomparable  with  real  life,  but  let 
us  sometimes  take  a  poet  at  his  word.  I  have  noticed  merely 
such  parts  of  the  poem  as  were  immediately  connected  with 
the  tower,  and  have  passed  over  a  large  part  which  was  in 
the  allegorical  vein,  so  much  cultivated  at  that  day.  The 
language,  of  course,  is  quaint  and  antiquated,  so  that  the 
beauty  of  many  of  its  golden  phrases  will  scarcely  be  per- 
ceived at  the  present  day;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  be 
charmed  with  the  genuine  sentiment,  the  delightful  artless- 
ness  and  urbanity,  which  prevail  throughout  it.  The  de- 
scriptions of  nature,  too,  with  which"  it  is  embellished,  are 
given  with  a  truth,  a  discrimination,  and  a  freshness,  worthy 
of  the  most  cultivated  period  of  the  arts. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifying,  in  these  days  of 
coarser  thinking,  to  notice  the  nature,  refinement,  and  ex- 
quisite delicacy  which  pervade  it,  banishing  every  gross 
thought,  or  immodest  expression,  and  presenting  female 
loveliness  clothed  in  all  its  chivalrous  attributes  of  almost 
supernatural  purity  and  grace. 


Jl?e  Sketel?-BooK  137 

James  flourished  nearly  about  the  time  of  Chaucer  and 
Gower,  and  was  evidently  an  admirer  and  studier  of  their 
writings.  Indeed,  in  one  of  his  stanzas  he  acknowledges 
them  as  his  masters,  and  in  some  parts  of  his  poem  we  find 
traces  of  similarity  to  their  productions,  more  especially  to 
those  of  Chaucer.  There  are  always,  however,  general  feat- 
ures of  resemblance  in  the  works  of  contemporary  authors, 
which  are  not  so  much  borrowed  from  each  other  as  from  the 
times.  Writers,  like  bees,  toll  their  sweets  in  the  wide  world ; 
they  incorporate  with  their  own  conceptions  the  anecdotes 
and  thoughts  which  are  current  in  society,  and  thus  each 
generation  has  some  features  in  common  characteristic  of 
the  age  in  which  it  lives.  James,  in  fact,  belongs  to  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  eras  of  our  literary  history,  and  establishes 
the  claims  of  his  country  to  a  participation  in  its  primitive 
honors.  While  a  small  cluster  of  English  writers  are  con- 
stantly cited  as  the  fathers  of  our  verse,  the  name  of  their 
great  Scottish  compeer  is  apt  to  be  passed  over  in  silence ;  but 
he  is  evidently  worthy  of  being  enrolled  in  that  little  constel- 
lation of  remote,  but  never-failing  luminaries,  who  shine  in 
the  highest  firmament  of  literature,  and  who,  like  morning 
stars,  sang  together  at  the  bright  dawning  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar  with  Scottish 
history  (though  the  manner  in  which  it  has  of  late  been 
woven  with  captivating  fiction  has  made  it  a  universal  study) 
may  be  curious  to  learn  something  of  the  subsequent  history 
of  James  and  the  fortunes  of  his  love.  His  passion  for  the 
Lady  Jane,  as  it  was  the  solace  of  his  captivity,  so  it  facili- 
tated his  release,  it  being  imagined  by  the  Court  that  a  con- 
nection with  the  blood-royal  of  England  would  attach  him  to 
its  own  interests.  He  was  ultimately  restored  to  his  liberty 
and  crown,  having  previously  espoused  the  Lady  Jane,  who 
accompanied  him  to  Scotland,  and  made  him  a  most  tender 
and  devoted  wife. 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the  feudal 
chieftains  having  taken  advantage  of  the  troubles  and  ir- 
regularities of  a  long  interregnum,  to  strengthen  themselves 


138  U/orks  of  U/asl?ii7$toi? 

in  their  possessions,  and  place  themselves  above  the  power  of 
the  laws.  James  sought  to  found  the  basis  of  his  power  in 
the  affections  of  his  people.  He  attached  the  lower  orders  to 
him  by  the  reformation  of  abuses,  the  temperate  and  equable 
administration  of  justice,  the  encouragement  of  the  arts  of 
peace,  and  the  promotion  of  everything  that  could  diffuse 
comfort,  competency,  and  innocent  enjoyment,  through  the 
humblest  ranks  of  society.  He  mingled  occasionally  among 
the  common  people  in  disguise;  visited  their  firesides;  en- 
tered into  their  cares,  their  pursuits,  and  their  amusements ; 
informed  himself  of  the  mechanical  arts,  and  how  they  could 
best  be  patronized  and  improved;  and  was  thus  an  all-per- 
vading spirit,  watching  with  a  benevolent  eye  over  the  mean- 
est of  his  subjects.  Having  in  this  generous  manner  made 
himself  strong  in  the  hearts  of  the  common  people,  he  turned 
himself  to  curb  the  power  of  the  factious  nobility ;  to  strip 
them  of  those  dangerous  immunities  which  they  had  usurped ; 
to  punish  such  as  had  been  guilty  of  flagrant  offenses ;  and 
to  bring  the  whole  into  proper  obedience  to  the  crown.  For 
some  time  they  bore  this  with  outward  submission,  but  with 
secret  impatience  and  brooding  resentment.  A  conspiracy 
was  at  length  formed  against  his  life,  at  the  head  of  which 
was  his  own  uncle,  Robert  Stewart,  Earl  of  Athol,  who,  be- 
ing too  old  himself  for  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  of  blood, 
instigated  his  grandson,  Sir  Robert  Stewart,  together  with 
Sir  Robert  Graham,  and  others  of  less  note,  to  commit  the 
deed.  They  broke  into  his  bedchamber  at  the  Dominican 
convent  near  Perth,  where  he  was  residing,  and  barbarously 
murdered  him  by  oft-repeated  wounds.  His  faithful  queen, 
rushing  to  throw  her  tender  body  between  him  and  the  sword, 
was  twice  wounded  in  the  ineffectual  attempt  to  shield  him 
from  the  assassins ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  had  been  forcibly 
torn  from  his  person  that  the  murder  was  accomplished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of  former 
times,  and  of  the  golden  little  poem,  which  had  its  birthplace 
in  this  tower,  that  made  me  visit  the  old  pile  with  more  than 
common  interest.  The  suit  of  armor  hanging  up  in  the  hall, 


Tl?e  Sketel?-BooK  139 

richly  gilt  and  embellished,  as  if  to  figure  in  the  tournay, 
brought  the  image  of  the  gallant  and  romantic  prince  vividly 
before  my  imagination.  I  paced  the  deserted  chambers  where 
he  had  composed  his  poem;  I  leaned  upon  the  window,  and 
endeavored  to  persuade  myself  it  was  the  very  one  where  he 
had  been  visited  by  his  vision ;  I  looked  out  upon  the  spot 
where  he  had  first  seen  the  Lady  Jane.  It  was  the  same 
genial  and  joyous  month :  the  birds  were  again  vying  with 
each  other  in  strains  of  liquid  melody ;  everything  was  burst- 
ing into  vegetation,  and  budding  forth  the  tender  promise  of 
the  year.  Time,  which  delights  to  obliterate  the  sterner 
memorials  of  human  pride,  seems  to  have  passed  lightly  over 
this  little  scene  of  poetry  and  love,  and  to  have  withheld  his 
desolating  hand.  Several  centuries  have  gone  by,  yet  the 
garden  still  flourishes  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  occupies 
what  was  once  the  moat  of  the  keep,  and  though  some  parts 
have  been  separated  by  dividing  walls,  yet  others  have  still 
their  arbors  and  shaded  walks,  as  in  the  days  of  James;  and 
the  whole  is  sheltered,  blooming,  and  retired.  There  is  a 
charm  about  the  spot  that  has  been  printed  by  the  footsteps 
of  departed  beauty,  and  consecrated  by  the  inspirations  of 
the  poet,  which  is  heightened,  rather  than  impaired,  by  the 
lapse  of  ages.  It  is,  indeed,  the  gift  of  poetry,  to  hallow 
every  place  in  which  it  moves ;  to  breathe  round  nature  an 
odor  more  exquisite  than  the  perfume  of  the  rose,  and  to  shed 
over  it  a  tint  more  magical  than  the  blush  of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustrious  deeds  of  James  as  a 
warrior  and  a  legislator;  but  I  have  delighted  to  view  him 
merely  as  the  companion  of  his  fellowmen,  the  benefactor  of 
the  human  heart,  stooping  from  his  high  estate  to  sow  the 
sweet  flowers  of  poetry  and  song  in  the  paths  of  common  life. 
He  was  the  first  to  cultivate  the  vigorous  and  hardy  plant  of 
Scottish  genius,  which  has  since  been  so  prolific  of  the  most 
wholesome  and  highly  flavored  fruit.  He  carried  with  him 
into  the  sterner  regions  of  the  north  all  the  fertilizing  arts  of 
southern  refinement.  He  did  everything  in  his  power  to  win 
his  countrymen  to  the  gay,  the  elegant,  and  gentle  arts  which 


140  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir?<$toi? 

soften  and  refine  the  character  of  a  people,  and  wreathe  a 
grace  round  the  loftiness  of  a  proud  and  warlike  spirit.  He 
wrote  many  poems,  which,  unfortunately  for  the  fullness  of 
his  fame,  are  now  lost  to  the  world ;  one,  which  is  still  pre- 
served, called  "Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green,"  shows  how  dili- 
gently he  had  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  rustic  sports 
and  pastimes,  which  constitute  such  a  source  of  kind  and 
social  feeling  among  the  Scottish  peasantry ;  and  with  what 
simple  and  happy  humor  he  could  enter  into  their  enjoy- 
ments. He  contributed  greatly  to  improve  the  national 
music;  and  traces  of  his  tender  sentiment  and  elegant  taste 
are  said  to  exist  in  those  witching  airs,  still  piped  among  the 
wild  mountains  and  lonely  glens  of  Scotland.  He  has  thus 
connected  his  image  with  whatever  is  most  gracious  and  en- 
dearing in  the  national  character;  he  has  embalmed  his 
memory  in  song,  and  floated  his  name  down  to  after-ages 
in  the  rich  stream  of  Scottish  melody.  The  recollection  of 
these  things  was  kindling  at  my  heart,  as  I  paced  the  silent 
scene  of  his  imprisonment.  I  have  visited  Vaucluse  with  as 
much  enthusiasm  as  a  pilgrim  would  visit  the  shrine  at  Lo- 
retto;  but  I  have  never  felt  more  poetical  devotion  than  when 
contemplating  the  old  tower  and  the  little  garden  at  Windsor, 
and  musing  over  the  romantic  loves  of  the  Lady  Jane  and 
the  Royal  Poet  of  Scotland. 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH 

"A  gentleman! 

What  o'  the  woolpack?  or  the  sugar-chest? 
Or  lists  of  velvet?  which  is't,  pound,  or  yard, 
You  vend  your  gentry  by?" — BEGGAR'S  BUSH 

THERE  are  few  places  more  favorable  to  the  study  of 
character  than  an  English  country  church.  I  was  once  pass- 
ing a  few  weeks  at  the  seat  of  a  friend,  who  resided  in  the 
vicinity  of  one,  the  appearance  of  which  particularly  struck 


141 

my  fancy.  It  was  one  of  <;hose  rich  morsels  of  quaint  an- 
tiquity which  give  such  a  peculiar  charm  to  English  land- 
scape. It  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  county  filled  with  ancient 
families,  and  contained,  within  its  cold  and  silent  aisles,  the 
congregated  dust  of  many  noble  generations.  The  ulterior 
walls  were  incrusted  with  monuments  of  every  age  and  style. 
The  light  streamed  through  windows  dimmed  with  armorial 
bearings,  richly  emblazoned  in  stained  glass.  In  various 
parts  of  the  church  were  tombs  of  knights,' and  high-born 
dames,  of  gorgeous  workmanship,  with  their  effigies  in 
colored  marble.  On  every  side,  the  eye  was  struck  with 
some  instance  of  aspiring  mortality ;  some  haughty  memo- 
rial which  human  pride  had  erected  over  its  kindred  dust,  in 
this  temple  of  the  most  humble  of  all  religions. 

The  congregation  was  composed  of  the  neighboring  people 
of  rank,  who  sat  in  pews  sumptuously  lined  and  cushioned, 
furnished  with  richly-gilded  prayer-books,  and  decorated 
with  their  arms  upon  the  pew  doors ;  of  the  villagers  and 
peasantry,  who  filled  the  back  seats,  and  a  small  gallery  be- 
side the  organ;  and  of  the  poor  of  the  parish,  who  were 
ranged  on  benches  in  the  aisles. 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuffling,  well-fed  vicar, 
who  had  a  snug  dwelling  near  the  church.  He  was  a  privi- 
leged guest  at  all  the  tables  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had 
been  the  keenest  fox -hunter  in  the  country,  until  age  and 
good  living  had  disabled  him  from  doing  anything  more  than 
ride  to  see  the  hounds  throw  off,  and  make  one  at  the  hunt- 
ing dinner. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  it  impossible 
to  get  into  the  train  of  thought  suitable  to  the  time  and  place ; 
so  having,  like  many  other  feeble  Christians,  compromised 
with  my  conscience,  by  laying  the  sin  of  my  own  delinquency 
at  another  person's  threshold,  I  occupied  myself  by  making 
observations  on  my  neighbors. 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curious  to  notice 
the  manners  of  its  fashionable  classes.  I  found,  as  usual, 
that  there  was  the  least  pretension  where  there  was  the  most 


of  U/asl?ii)<Jtoi? 

acknowledged  title  to  respect.  I  was  particularly  struck,  for 
instance,  with  the  family  of  a  nobleman  of  high  rank,  con- 
sisting of  several  sons  and  daughters.  Nothing  could  be 
more  simple  and  unassuming  than  their  appearance.  They 
generally  came  to  church  in  the  plainest  equipage,  and  often 
on  foot.  The  young  ladies  would  stop  and  converse  in  the 
kindest  manner  with  the  peasantry,  caress  the  children,  and 
listen  to  the  stories  of  the  humble  cottagers.  Their  counte- 
nances were  open  and  beautifully  fair,  with  an  expression  of 
high  refinement,  but  at  the  same  time  a  frank  cheerfulness 
and  engaging  affability.  Their  brothers  were  tall,  and  ele- 
gantly formed.  They  were  dressed  fashionably,  but  simply; 
with  strict  neatness  and  propriety,  but  without  any  manner- 
ism or  foppishness.  Their  whole  demeanor  was  easy  and 
natural,  with  that  lofty  grace  and  noble  frankness  which  be- 
speak free-born  souls  that  have  never  been  checked  in  their 
growth  by  feelings  of  inferiority.  There  is  a  healthful  hardi- 
ness about  real  dignity  that  never  dreads  contact  and  com- 
munion with  others,  however  humble.  It  is  only  spurious 
pride  that  is  morbid  and  sensitive,  and  shrinks  from  every 
touch.  I  was  pleased  to  see  the  manner  in  which  they  would 
converse  with  the  peasantry  about  those  rural  concerns  and 
field  sports  in  which  the  gentlemen  of  this  country  so  much 
delight.  In  these  conversations,  there  was  neither  haughti- 
ness on  the  one  part,  nor  servility  on  the  other;  and  you  were 
only  reminded  of  the  difference  of  rank  by  the  habitual  re- 
spect of  the  peasant. 

-In  contrast  to  these  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy  citizen, 
who  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune,  and,  having  purchased  the 
estate  and  mansion  of  a  ruined  nobleman  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, was  endeavoring  to  assume  all  the  style  and  dignity 
of  a  hereditary  lord  of  the  soil.  The  family  always  came  to 
church  en  prince.  They  were  rolled  majestically  along  in  a 
carriage  emblazoned  with  arms.  The  crest  glittered  in  silver 
radiance  from  every  part  of  the  harness  where  a  crest  could 
possibly  be  placed.  A  fat  coachman  in  a  three-cornered  hat, 
richly  laced,  and  a  flaxen  wig,  curling  close  round  his  rosy 


Tbe  SKetol?-BooK  143 

face,  was  seated  on  the  box,  with  a  sleek  Danish  dog  beside 
him.  Two  footmen  in  gorgeous  liveries,  with  huge  bouquets, 
and  gold-headed  canes,  lolled  behind.  The  carriage  rose  and 
sunk  on  its  long  springs  with  a  peculiar  stateliness  of  motion. 
The  very  horses  champed  their  bits,  arched  their  necks,  and 
glanced  their  eyes  more  proudly  than  common  horses ;  either 
because  they  had  got  a  little  of  the  family  feeling,  or  were 
reined  up  more  tightly  than  ordinary. 

I  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which  this  splendid 
pageant  was  brought  up  to  the  gate  of  the  churchyard. 
There  was  a  vast  effect  produced  at  the  turning  of  an  angle 
of  the  wall; — a  great  smacking  of  the  whip;  straining  and 
scrambling  of  the  horses ;  glistening  of  harness,  and  flashing 
of  wheels  through  gravel.  This  was  the  moment  of  triumph 
and  vainglory  to  the  coachman.  The  horses  were  urged 
and  checked,  until  they  were  fretted  into  a  foam.  They 
threw  out  their  feet  in  a  prancing  trot,  dashing  about  pebbles 
at  every  step.  The  crowd  of  villagers  sauntering  quietly  to 
church  opened  precipitately  to  the  right  and  left,  gaping  in 
vacant  admiration.  On  reaching  the  gate,  the  horses  were 
pulled  up  with  a  suddenness  that  produced  an  immediate 
stop,  and  almost  threw  them  on  their  haunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  footmen  to 
alight,  open  the  door,  pull  down  the  steps,  and  prepare 
everything  for  the  descent  on  earth  of  this  august  family. 
The  old  citizen  first  emerged  his  round  red  face  from  out  the 
door,  looking  about  him  with  the  pompous  air  of  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  rule  on  'change,  and  shake  the  stock-market  with  a 
nod.  His  consort,  a  fine,  fleshy,  comfortable  dame,  followed 
him.  There  seemed,  I  must  confess,  but  little  pride  in  her 
composition.  She  was  the  picture  of  broad,  honest,  vulgar 
enjoyment.  The  world  went  well  with  her;  and  she  liked 
the  world.  She  had  fine  clothes,  a  fine  house,  a  fine  car- 
riage, fine  children,  everything  was  fine  about  her :  it  was 
nothing  but  driving  about,  and  visiting  and  feasting.  Life 
was  to  her  a  perpetual  revel ;  it  was  one  long  Lord  Mayor's 
day. 


144  U/orKs  of 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple.  They 
certainly  were  handsome;  but  had  a  supercilious  air  that 
chilled  admiration,  and  disposed  the  spectator  to  be  critical. 
They  were  ultra-fashionables  in  dress,  and,  though  no  one 
could  deny  the  richness  of  their  decorations,  yet  their  appro- 
priateness might  be  questioned  amid  the  simplicity  of  a  coun- 
try church.  They  descended  loftily  from  the  carriage,  and 
moved  up  the  line  of  peasantry  with  a  step  that  seemed 
dainty  of  the  soil  it  trod  on.  They  cast  an  excursive  glance 
around,  that  passed  coldly  over  the  burly  faces  of  the  peasan- 
try, until  they  met  the  eyes  of  the  nobleman's  family,  when 
their  countenances  immediately  brightened  into  smiles,  and 
they  made  the  most  profound  and  elegant  courtesies,  which 
were  returned  in  a  manner  that  showed  they  were  but  slight 
acquaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring  citizen, 
who  came  to  church  in  a  dashing  curricle,  with  outriders. 
They  were  arrayed  in  the  extremity  of  the  mode  with  all 
that  pedantry  of  dress  which  marks  the  man  of  questionable 
pretensions  to  style.  They  kept  entirely  by  themselves,  ey- 
ing every  one  askance  that  came  near  them,  as  if  measuring 
his  claims  to  respectability;  yet  they  were  without  conversa- 
tion, except  the  exchange  of  an  occasional  cant  phrase.  They 
even  moved  artificially,  for  their  bodies,  in  compliance  with 
the  caprice  of  the  day,  had  been  disciplined  into  the  absence 
of  all  ease  and  freedom.  Art  had  done  everything  to  accom- 
plish them  as  men  of  fashion,  but  Nature  had  denied  them 
the  nameless  grace.  They  were  vulgarly  shaped,  like  men 
formed  for  the  common  purposes  of  life,  and  had  that  air  of 
supercilious  assumption  which  is  never  seen  in  the  true  gen- 
tleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pictures  of 
these  two  families,  because  I  considered  them  specimens  of 
what  is  often  to  be  met  with  in  this  country — the  unpretend- 
ing great,  and  the  arrogant  little.  I  have  no  respect  for 
titled  rank,  unless  it  be  accompanied  by  true  nobility  of  soul ; 
but  I  have  remarked,  in  all  countries  where  these  artificial 


Tbe  SKetol?-BooK  145 

distinctions  exist,  that  the  very  highest  classes  are  always 
the  most  courteous  and  unassuming.  Those  who  are  well 
assured  of  their  own  standing,  are  least  apt  to  trespass  on 
that  of  others :  whereas,  nothing  is  so  offensive  as  the  aspir- 
ings of  vulgarity,  which  thinks  to  elevate  itself  by  humili- 
ating its  neighbor. 

As  I  have  brought  these  families  into  contrast,  I  must 
notice  their  behavior  in  church.  That  of  the  nobleman's 
family  was  quiet,  serious,  and  attentive.  Not  that  they  ap- 
peared to  have  any  fervor  of  devotion,  but  rather  a  respect 
for  sacred  things  and  "sacred  places,  inseparable  from  good- 
breeding.  The  others,  on  the  contrary,  were  in  a  perpetual 
flutter  and  whisper;  they  betrayed  a  continual  consciousness 
of  finery,  and  the  sorry  ambition  of  being  the  wonders  of  a 
rural  congregation. 

The  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  attentive  to 
the  service.  He  took  the  whole  burden  of  family  devotion 
upon  himself;  standing  bolt  upright,  and  uttering  the  re- 
sponses with  a  loud  voice  that  might  be  heard  all  over  the 
church.  It  was'  evident  that  he  was  one  of  these  thorough 
church  and  king  men,  who  connect  the  idea  of  devotion  and 
loyalty ;  who  consider  the  Deity,  somehow  or  other,  of  the 
government  party,  and  religion  "a  very  excellent  sort  of 
thing,  that  ought  to  be  countenanced  and  kept  up." 

When  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service  it  seemed  more 
by  way  of  example  to  the  lower  orders,  to  show  them,  that 
though  so  great  and  wealthy,  he  was  not  above  being  relig- 
ious ;  as  I  have  seen  a  turtle-fed  alderman  swallow  publicly 
a  basin  of  charity  soup,  smacking  his  lips  at  every  mouthful, 
and  pronouncing  it  "excellent  food  for  the  poor." 

When  the  service  was  at  an  end,  I  was  curious  to  witness 
the  several  exits  of  my  groups.  The  young  noblemen  and 
their  sisters,  as  the  day  was  fine,  preferred  strolling  home 
across  the  fields,  chatting  with  the  country  people  as  they 
went.  The  others  departed  as  they  came,  in  grand  parade. 
Again  were  the  equipages  wheeled  up  to  the  gate.  There 
was  again  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  hoofs, 
*  *  *7  VOL.  I. 


146  U/orKs  of  U/asl?iQ$tor>  Irvir>$ 


and  the  glittering  of  harness.  The  horses  started  off  almost 
at  a  bound  ;  the  villagers  again  hurried  to  right  and  left  ;  the 
wheels  threw  up  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  the  aspiring  family  was 
wrapped  out  of  sight  in  a  whirlwind. 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON 

"Pittie  olde  age,  within  whose  silver  haires 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  have  raigned." 

—MARLOWE'S  Tamburlaine 

DURING  my  residence  in  the  country  I  used  frequently 
to  attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shadowy  aisles,  its 
mouldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  paneling,  all  reverend 
with  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  the 
haunt  of  solemn  meditation.  A  Sunday,  too,  in  the  country, 
is  so  holy  in  its  repose — such  a  pensive  quiet  reigns  over  the 
face  of  Nature  that  every  restless  passion  is  charmed  down, 
and  we  feel  all  the  natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  spring- 
ing up  within  us. 

"Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky!" 

I  cannot  lay  claim  to  the  merit  of  being  a  devout  man ; 
but  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church,  amid 
the  beautiful  serenity  of  Nature,  which  I  experience  nowhere 
else ;  and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a  better  man 
on  Sunday  than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven. 

But  in  this  church  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown  back 
upon  the  world,  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms 
around  me.  The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly  to  feel 
the  humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian  was  a 
poor  decrepit  old  woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years 
and  infirmities.  She  bore  the  traces  of  something  better  than 
abject  poverty.  The  lingerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible 
in  her  appearance.  Her  dress,  though  humble  in  the  ex- 


Tl?e  Sketch-Book  147 

i 

treme,  was  scrupulously  clean.  Some  trivial  respect,  too, 
had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not  take  her  seat  among 
the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She 
seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all  friendship,  all  society; 
and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of  heaven.  When 
I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged  form  in  prayer; 
habitually  conning  her  prayer-book,  which  her  palsied  hand 
and  failing  eyes  could  not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which  she 
evidently  knew  by  heart,  I  felt  persuaded  that  the  faltering 
voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose  to  heaven  far  before  the  re- 
sponses of  the  clerk,  the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting 
of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches;  and  this 
was  so  delightfully  situated  that  it  frequently  attracted  me. 
It  stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  -small  stream  made  a 
beautiful  bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long 
reach  of  soft  meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded 
by  yew  trees,  which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its 
tall  gothic  spire  shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with 
rooks  and  crows  generally  wheeling  about  it.  I  was  seated 
there  one  still  sunny  morning,  watching  two  laborers  who 
were  digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  re- 
mote and  neglected  corners  of  the  churchyard,  where,  by  the 
number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  appear  that  the 
indigent  and  friendless  were  huddled  into  the  earth.  I  was 
told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a  poor 
widow.  While  I  was  meditating  on  .the  distinctions  of 
worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust, 
the  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  funeral. 
They  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty,  with  which  pride  had 
nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without1 
pall  or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers. 
The  sexton  walked  before  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference. 
There  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected 
woe,  but  .there  was  one  real  mourner  who  feebly  tottered 
after  the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased — 
the  poor  old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of 


148  U/orKs  of  U/aslpip^toi) 

the  altar.  She  was  supported  by  a  humble  friend,  who  was 
endeavoring  to  comfort  her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring  poor 
had  joined  the  train,  and  some  children  of  the  village  were 
running  hand  in  hand,  now  shouting  with  unthinking  mirth, 
and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with  childish  curiosity,  on  the  grief 
of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
issued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with 
prayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  ser- 
vice, however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had 
been  destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  penniless.  It  was 
shuffled  through,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeel- 
ingly. The  well-fed  priest  moved  but  a  few  steps  from  the 
church  door ;  his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave ; 
and  never  did  I  hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and 
touching  ceremony,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of 
words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the  de- 
ceased— "George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor  mother 
had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it.  Her  with- 
ered hands  were  clasped,  as  if  in  prayer;  but  I  could  per- 
ceive, by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body,  and  a  convulsive 
motion  of  the  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of 
her  son  with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth. 
There  was  that  bustling  stir  which  breaks  so  harshly  on  the 
feelings  of  grief  and  affection :  directions  given  in  the  cold 
tones  of  business ;  the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and  gravel ; 
which,  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is  of  all  sounds  the  most 
withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to  waken  the  mother 
from  a  wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and 
looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men  approached 
with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  she  wrung  her 
hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor  woman 
who  attended  her  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavored  to  raise 
her  from  the  earth,  and  to  whisper  something  like  consola- 


149 

tion — "Nay,  now — nay,  now — don't  take  it  so  sorely  to 
heart."  She  could  only  shake  her  head,  and  wring  her 
hands,  as  one  not  to  be  comforted. 

<  As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth  the  creaking  of 
the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her;  but  when,  on  some  acci- 
dental obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling  of  the  coffin,  all 
the  tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth;  as  if  any  harm 
could  come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly 
suffering. 

I  could  see  no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat — 
my  eyes  filled  with  tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were  acting  a  barbar- 
ous part  in  standing  by  and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of  ma- 
ternal anguish.  I  wandered  to  another  part  of  the  churchyard, 
where  I  remained  until  the  funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

"When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the 
grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dear  to 
her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution,  my 
heart  ached  for  her.  "What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of 
the  rich?  They  have  friends  to  soothe — pleasures  to  beguile 
— a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are  the 
sorrows  of  the  young?  Their  growing  minds  soon  close 
above  the  wound — their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneath  the 
pressure  —  their  green  and  ductile  affections  soon  twine 
around  new  objects.  But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor,  who 
have  no  outward  appliances  to  soothe— the  sorrows  of  the 
aged,  with  whom  life  at  best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who 
can  look  for  no  after-growth  of  joy — the  sorrows  of  a  widow, 
aged,  solitary,  destitute,  mourning  over  an  only  son,  the  last 
solace  of  her  years ; — these  are  indeed  sorrows  which  make 
us  feel  the  impotency  of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  churchyard.  On  my 
way  homeward  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted  as 
comforter:  she  was  just  returning  from  accompanying  her 
mother  to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some 
particulars  connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had  wit- 
nessed. 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village 


150  U/or^s  of 


from  childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest  cot- 
tages, and  by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assistance 
of  a  small  garden,  had  supported  themselves  creditably  and 
comfortably,  and  led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They 
had  one  son,  who  had  grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of 
their  age.  —  "Oh,  sir!"  said  the  good  woman,  "he  was  such 
a  comely  lad,  so  sweet-tempered,  so  kind  to  every  one  around 
him,  so  dutiful  to  his  parents!  It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see 
him  of  a  Sunday,  dressed  out  in  his  best,  so  tall,  so  straight, 
so  cheery,  supporting  his  old  mother  to  church  —  for  she  was 
always  fonder  of  leaning  on  George's  arm  than  on  her  good 
man's;  and,  poor  soul,  she  might  well  be  proud  of  him,  for 
a  finer  lad  there  was  not  in  the  country  round." 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of 
scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  service  of 
one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied  on  a  neighboring  river.  He 
had  not  been  long  in  this  employ  when  he  was  entrapped  by 
a  press-gang  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His  parents  received 
tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could  learn  noth- 
ing. It  was  the  loss  of  their  main  prop.  The  father,  who 
was  already  infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melancholy,  and  sunk 
into  his  grave.  The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feeble- 
ness, could  no  longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  par- 
ish. Still  there  was  a  kind  of  feeling  toward  her  throughout 
the  village,  and  a  certain  respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest 
inhabitants.  As  no  one  applied  for  the  cottage  in  which  she 
had  passed  so  many  happy  days,  she  was  permitted  to  re- 
main in  it,  where  she  lived  solitary  and  almost  helpless.  The 
few  wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  supplied  from  the  scanty 
productions  of  her  little  garden,  which  the  neighbors  would 
now  and  then  cultivate  for  her.  It  was  but  a  few  days  be- 
fore the  tune  at  which  these  circumstances  were  told  me, 
that  she  was  gathering  some  vegetables  for  her  repast,  when 
she  heard  the  cottage  door  which  faced  the  garden  suddenly 
opened.  A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to  be  looking 
eagerly  and  wildly  around.  He  was  dressed  in  seamen's 
clothes,  was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air 


Tl?e  SKetel?-BooK  151 

of  one  broken  by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and 
hastened  toward  her,  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering; 
he  sank  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 
The  poor  woman  gazed  upon  him  with  a  vacant  and  wander- 
ing eye — "Oh,  my  dear,  dear  mother!  don't  you  know  your 
son?  your  poor  boy  George?"  It  was,  indeed,  the  wreck  of 
her  once  noble  lad ;  who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness, 
and  foreign  imprisonment,  had,  at  length,  dragged  his 
wasted  limbs  homeward,  to  repose  among  the  scenes  of 
his  childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a  meet- 
ing, where  sorrow  and  joy  were  so  completely  blended:  still 
he  was  alive !  — he  was  come  home ! — he  might  yet  live  to 
comfort  and  cherish  her  old  age!  Nature,  however,  was  ex- 
hausted in  him;  and  if  anything  had  been  wanting  to  finish 
the  work  of  fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would 
have  been  sufficient.  He  stretched  himself  on  the  pallet  on 
which  his  widowed  mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless 
night,  and  he  never  rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers  had 
returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort  and 
assistance  that  their  humble  means  afforded.  He  was  too 
weak,  however,  to  talk — he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His 
mother  was  his  constant  attendant ;  and  he  seemed  unwilling 
to  be  helped  by  any  other  hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride 
of  manhood;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it  back  to  the 
feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  languished,  even  in  ad- 
vanced life,  in  sickness  and  despondency ;  who  that  has  pined 
on  a  weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land; 
but  has  thought  on  the  mother  "that  looked  on  his  child- 
hood," that  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his 
helplessness?  Oh!  there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the 
love  of  a  mother  to  a  son  that  transcends  all  other  affections 
of  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor 
daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor 
stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to 


152  U/orKs  of  U/a8bir?$toi)  Iruii?<? 

his  convenience ;  she  will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his  en- 
joyment, she  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosper- 
ity;— and,  if  misfortune  overtake  him,  he  will  be  the  dearer 
to  her  from  misfortune ;  and  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his  name, 
she  will  still  love  and  cherish  him  in  spite  of  his  disgrace ; 
and  if  all  the  world  beside  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the 
world  to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  in  sick- 
ness, and  none  to  soothe— lonely  and  in  prison,  and  none  to 
visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from  his  sight; 
if  she  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit 
for  hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes 
he  would  start  from  a  feverish  dream,  and  looking  anxiously 
up  until  he  saw  her  bending  over  him,  when  he  would  take 
her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep  with  the  tran- 
quillity of  a  child.  In  this  way  he  died. 

My  first  impulse,  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  affliction, 
was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  administer  pe- 
cuniary assistance,  and,  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found,  how- 
ever, on  inquiry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers  had 
prompted  them  to  do  everything  that  the  case  admitted ;  and 
as  the  poor  know  best  how  to  console  each  other's  sorrows,  I 
did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church;  when,  to 
my  surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down  the 
aisle  to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourn- 
ing for  her  son ;  and  nothing  could  be  more  touching  than 
this  struggle  between  pious  affection  and  utter  poverty :  a 
black  ribbon  or  so — a  faded  black  handkerchief — and  one  or 
two  more  such  humble  attempts  to  express  by  outward  signs 
that  grief  which  passes  show. — When  I  looked  round  upon 
the  storied  monuments,  the  stately  hatchments,  the  cold 
marble  pomp,  with  which  grandeur  mourned  magnificently 
over  departed  pride,  and  turned  to  this  poor  widow,  bowed 
down  by  age  and  sorrow  at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and  offer- 
ing up  the  prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a  broken 


153 

heart,  I  felt  that  this  living  monument  of  real  grief  was 
worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of  the 
congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it.  They  exerted 
themselves  to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable,  and  to 
lighten  her  afflictions.  It  was,  however,  but  smoothing  a 
few  steps  to  the  grave.  In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two 
after  she  was  missed  from  her  usual  seat  at  church,  and  be- 
fore I  left  the  neighborhood  I  heard,  with  a  feeling  of  satis- 
faction, that  she  had  quietly  breathed  her  last,  and  had  gone 
to  rejoin  those  she  loved,  in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  never 
known  and  friends  are  never  parted. 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EAST- 
CHEAP 

A    SHAKESPEARIAN    RESEARCH 

"A  tavern  is  the  rendezvous,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of  good 
fellows.  I  have  heard  my  great-grandfather  tell,  how  his  great-great- 
grandfather should  say,  that  it  was  an  old  proverb  when  his  great- 
grandfather was  a  child,  that  'it  was  a  good  wind  that  blew  a  man  to 
the  wine.'  "—MOTHER  BOMBIE 

IT  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catholic  countries,  to  honor 
the  memory  of  saints  by  votive  lights  burned  before  their 
pictures.  The  popularity  of  a  saint,  therefore,  may  be 
known  by  the  number  of  these  offerings.  One,  perhaps, 
is  left  to  moulder  in  the  darkness  of  his  little  chapel ;  another 
may  have  a  solitary  lamp  to  throw  its  blinking  rays  athwart 
his  effigy ;  while  the  whole  blaze  of  adoration  is  lavished  at 
the  shrine  of  some  beatified  father  of  renown.  The  wealthy 
devotee  brings  his  huge  luminary  of  wax;  the  eager  zealot, 
his  seven-branched  candlestick;  and  even  the  mendicant  pil- 
grim is  by  no  means  satisfied  that  sufficient  light  is  thrown 
upon  the  deceased,  unless  he  hangs  up  his  little  lamp  of 


154  U/orKs  of  U/a8bii)$top  Iruii><$ 

smoking  oil.  The  consequence  is,  in  the  eagerness  to  en- 
lighten, they  are  often  apt  to  obscure ;  and  I  have  occasion- 
ally seen  an  unlucky  saint  almost  smoked  out  of  countenance 
by  the  officiousness  of  his  followers. 

In  like  manner  has  it  fared  with  the  immortal  Shake- 
speare. Every  writer  considers  it  his  bounden  duty  to  light 
up  some  portion  of  his  character  or  works,  and  to  rescue  some 
merit  from  oblivion.  The  commentator,  opulent  in  words, 
produces  vast  tomes  of  dissertations;  the  common  herd  of 
editors  send  up  mists  of  obscurity  from  their  notes  at  the 
bottom  of  each  page ;  and  every  casual  scribbler  brings  his 
farthing  rush-light  of  eulogy  or  research,  to  swell  the  cloud 
of  incense  and  of  smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  brethren  of  the 
quill,  I  thought  it  but  proper  to  contribute  my  mite  of  hom- 
age to  the  memory  of  the  illustrious  bard.  I  was  for  some 
time,  however,  sorely  puzzled  in  what  way  I  should  dis- 
charge this  duty.  I  found  myself  anticipated  in  every  at- 
tempt at  a  new  reading;  every  doubtful  line  had  been  ex- 
plained a  dozen  different  ways,  and  perplexed  beyond  the 
reach  of  elucidation;  and  as  to  fine  passages,  they  had  all 
been  amply  praised  by  previous  admirers :  nay,  so  completely 
had  the  bard,  of  late,  been  overlarded  with  panegyric  by  a 
great  German  critic  that  it  was  difficult  now  to  find  even 
a  fault  that  had  not  been  argued  into  a  beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning  over  his 
pages,  when  I  casually  opened  upon  the  comic  scenes  of 
Henry  IV.,  and  was,  in  a  moment,  completely  lost  in  the 
madcap  revelry  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  So  vividly  and 
naturally  are  these  scenes  of  humor  depicted,  and  with  such 
force  and  consistency  are  the  characters  sustained,  that  they 
become  mingled  up  in  the  mind  with  the  facts  and  person- 
ages of  real  life.  To  few  readers  does  it  occur  that  these  are 
all  ideal  creations  of  a  poet's  brain,  and  that,  in  sober  truth, 
no  such  knot  of  merry  roisterers  ever  enlivened  the  dull  neigh- 
borhood of  Eastcheap. 

For  my  part,  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  illusions  of 


155 

poetry.  A  hero  of  fiction  that  never  existed  is  just  as  valu- 
able to  me  as  a  hero  of  history  that  existed  a  thousand  years 
since;  and,  if  I  may  be  excused  such  an  insensibility  to  the 
common  ties  of  human  nature,  I  would  not  give  up  fat  Jack 
for  half  the  great  men  of  ancient  chronicle.  What  have  the 
heroes  of  yore  done  for  me,  or  men  like  me?  They  have 
conquered  countries  of  which  I  do  not  enjoy  an  acre ;  or  they 
have  gained  laurels  of  which  I  do  not  inherit  a  leaf;  or  they 
have  furnished  examples  of  hare-brained  prowess  which  I 
have  neither  the  opportunity  nor  the  inclination  to  follow. 
But  old  Jack  Falstaff !— kind  Jack  Falstaff !— sweet  Jack 
Falstaff !  has  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  human  enjoyment ; 
he  has  added  vast  regions  of  wit  and  good-humor,  in  which 
the  poorest  man  may  revel ;  and  has  bequeathed  a  never-fail- 
ing inheritance  of  jolly  laughter  to  make  mankind  merrier 
and  better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me:  "I  will  make  a  pilgrim- 
age to  Eastcheap,"  said  I,  closing  the  book,  "and -see  if  the 
old  Boar's  Head  Tavern  still  exists.  Who  knows  but  I  may 
light  upon  some  legendary  traces  of  Dame  Quickly  and  her 
guests;  at  any  rate,  there  will  be  a  kindred  pleasure,  in 
treading  the  halls  once  vocal  with  their  mirth,  to  that  the 
toper  enjoys  in  smelling  to  the  empty  cask,  once  filled  with 
generous  wine." 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put  in  execu- 
tion. I  forbear  to  treat  of  the  various  adventures  and  won- 
ders I  encountered  in  my  travels,  of  the  haunted  regions  of 
Cock  Lane ;  of  the  faded  glories  of  Little  Britain,  and  the 
parts  adjacent ;  what  perils  I  ran  in  Cateaton  Street  and  Old 
Jewry;  of  the  renowned  Guildhall  and  its  two  stunted 
giants,  the  pride  and  wonder  of  the  city,  and  the  terror  of  all 
unlucky  urchins;  and  how  I  visited  London  Stone,  and 
struck  my  staff  upon  it,  in  imitation  of  that  arch-rebel,  Jack 
Cade. 

Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  I  at  length  arrived  in  merry  East- 
cheap,  that  ancient  region  of  wit  and  wassail,  where  the  very 
names  of  the  streets  relished  of  good  cheer,  as  Pudding  Lane 


156  U/orKs  of  U/a8bii?$top 

bears  testimony  even  at  the  present  day.  For  Eastcheap, 
says  old  Stow,  "was  always  famous  for  its  convivial  doings. 
The  cookes  cried  hot  ribbes  of  beef  roasted,  pies  well  baked, 
and  other  victuals ;  there  was  clattering  of  pewter  pots,  harpe, 
pipe,  and  sawtrie."  Alas!  how  sadly  is  the  scene  changed 
since  the  roaring  days  of  Falstaff  and  old  Stow !  The  mad- 
cap roisterer  has  given  place  to  the  plodding  tradesman ;  the 
clattering  of  pots  and  the  sound  of  "harpe  and  sawtrie,"  to 
the  din  of  carts  and  the  accursed  dinging  of  the  dustman's 
bell;  and  no  song  is  heard,  save,  haply,  the  strain  of  some 
siren  from  Billingsgate,  chanting  the  eulogy  of  deceased 
mackerel. 

I  sought,  in  vain,  for  the  ancient  abode  of  Dame  Quickly. 
The  only  relic  of  it  is  a  boar's  head,  carved  in  relief  stone, 
which  formerly  served  as  the  sign,  but,  at  present,  is  built 
into  the  parting  line  of  two  houses  which  stand  on  the  site  of 
the  renowned  old  tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  empire  of  good  fellowship,  I 
was  referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's  widow,  opposite,  who  had 
been  born  and  brought  up  on  the  spot,  and  was  looked  up  to 
as  the  indisputable  chronicler  of  the  neighborhood.  I  found 
her  seated  in  a  little  back  parlor,  the  window  of  which  looked 
out  upon  a  yard  about  eight  feet  square,  laid  out  as  a  flower- 
garden  ;  while  a  glass  door  opposite  afforded  a  distant  peep 
of  the  street,  through  a  vista  of  soap  and  tallow  candles ;  the 
two  views,  which  comprised,  in  all  probability,  her  prospects 
in  life,  and  the  little  world  in  which  she  had  lived,  and 
moved,  and  had  her  being,  for  the  better  part  of  a  century. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little, 
from  London  Stone  even  unto  the  Monument,  was,  doubt- 
less, in  her  opinion,  to  be  acquainted  with  the  history  of  the 
universe.  Yet,  with  all  this,  she  possessed  the  simplicity  of 
true  wisdom,  and  that  liberal,  communicative  disposition 
which  I  have  generally  remarked  in  intelligent  old  ladies, 
knowing  in  the  concerns  of  their  neighborhood. 

Her  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far  back  into 
antiquity.  She  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  history  of  the 


157 

Boar's  Head,  from  the  time  that  Dame  Quickly  espoused  the 
valiant  Pistol,  until  the  great  fire  of  London,  when  it  was 
unfortunately  burned  down.  It  was  soon  rebuilt,  and  con- 
tinued to  flourish  under  the  old  name  and  sign,  until  a  dying 
landlord,  struck  with  remorse  for  double  scores,  bad  meas- 
ures, and  other  iniquities  which  are  incident  to  the  sinful 
race  of  publicans,  endeavored  to  make  his  peace  with  Heaven, 
by  bequeathing  the  tavern  to  St.  Michael's  Church,  Crooked 
Lane,  toward  the  supporting  of  a  chaplain.  For  some  time 
the  vestry  meetings  were  regularly  held  there ;  but  it  was 
observed  that  the  old  Boar  never  held  up  his  head  under 
church  government.  He  gradually  declined,  and  finally 
gave  his  last  gasp  about  thirty  years  since.  The  tavern  was 
then  turned  into  shops ;  but  she  informed  me  that  a  picture 
of  it  was  still  preserved  in  St.  Michael's  Church,  which  stood 
just  in  the  rear.  To  get  a  sight  of  this  picture  was  now  my 
determination ;  so,  having  informed  myself  of  the  abode  of 
the  sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the  venerable  chronicler  of 
Eastcheap,  my  visit  having  doubtless  raised  greatly  her  opin- 
ion of  her  legendary  lore,  and  furnished  an  important  inci- 
dent in  the  history  of  her  life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty,  and  much  curious  inquiry,  to 
ferret  out  the  humble  hanger-on  to  the  church.  I  had  to  ex- 
plore Crooked  Lane,  and  divers  little  alleys,  and  elbows,  and 
dark  passages,  with  which  this  old  city  is  perforated,  like  an 
ancient  cheese  or  a  worm-eaten  chest  of  drawers.  At  length 
I  traced  him  to  a  corner  of  a  small  court,  surrounded  by  lofty 
houses,  where  the  inhabitants  enjoy  about  as  much  of  the 
face  of  heaven  as  a  community  of  frogs  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well.  The  sexton  was  a  meek,  acquiescing  little  man,  of 
a  bowing,  lowly  habit;  yet  he  had  a  pleasant  twinkling  in 
his  eye,  and  if  encouraged,  would  now  and  then  venture  a 
small  pleasantry;  such  as  a  man  of  his  low  estate  might 
venture  to  make  in  the  company  of  high  church  wardens, 
and  other  mighty  men  of  the  earth.  I  found  him  in  com- 
pany with  the  deputy  organist,  seated  apart,  like  Milton's 
angels ;  discoursing,  no  doubt,  on  high  doctrinal  points,  and 


158  U/orK»  of 

settling  the  affairs  of  the  church  over  a  friendly  poi  of  ale ; 
for  the  lower  classes  of  English  seldom  deliberate  on  any 
weighty  matter  without  the  assistance  of  a  cool  tankard  to 
clear  their  understandings.  I  arrived  at  the  moment  when 
they  had  finished  their  ale  and  their  argument,  and  were 
about  to  repair  to  the  church  to  put  it  in  order ;  so,  having 
made  known  my  wishes,  I  received  their  gracious  permission 
to  accompany  them. 

The  church  of  St.  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane,  standing  a 
short  distance  from  Billingsgate,  is  enriched  with  the  tombs 
of  many  fishmongers  of  renown;  and  as  every  profession 
has  its  galaxy  of  glory,  and  its  constellation  of  great  men,  I 
presume  the  monument  of  a  mighty  fishmonger  of  the  olden 
time  is  regarded  with  as  much  reverence  by  succeeding  gen- 
erations of  the  craft  as  poets  feel  on  contemplating  the  tomb 
of  Virgil,  or  soldiers  the  monument  of  a  Marlborough  or 
Turenne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  while  thus  speaking  of  illustrious 
men,  to  observe  that  St.  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane,  contains 
also  the  ashes  of  that  doughty  champion,  William  "Walworth, 
Knight,  who  so  manfully  clove  down  the  sturdy  wight,  Wat 
Tyler,  in  Smithfield;  a  hero  worthy  of  honorable  blazon,  as 
almost  the  only  Lord  Mayor  on  record  famous  for  deeds  of 
arms;  the  sovereigns  of  Cockney  being  generally  renowned 
as  the  most  pacific  of  all  potentates.* 


*  The  following  was  the  ancient  inscription  on  the  monument  of 
this  worthy,  which,  unhappily,  was  destroyed  in  the  great  conflagration: 

"Hereunder  lyth  a  man  of  fame, 
William  Walworth  callyd  by  name ; 
Fishmonger  he  was  in  lyfftime  here, 
And  twise  Lord  Maior,  as  in  books  appeare ; 
Who,  with  courage  stout  and  manly  myght, 
Slew  Jack  Straw  in  Kyng  Richard's  sight, 
For  which  act  done,  and  trew  entent, 
The  Kyng  made  him  knyght  incontinent ; 
And  gave  him  armes,  as  here  you  see, 
To  declare  his  fact  and  chivaldrie : 


159 

Adjoining  the  church,  in  a  small  cemetery,  immediately 
under  the  back  windows  of  what  was  once  the  Boar's  Head, 
stands  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Preston,  whilom  drawer  at 
the  tavern.  It  is  now  nearly  a  century  since  this  trusty 
drawer  of  good  liquor  closed  his  bustling  career,  and  was 
thus  quietly  deposited  within  call  of  his  customers.  As  I 
was  clearing  away  the  weeds  from  his  epitaph,  the  little  sex- 
ton drew  me  on  one  side  with  a  mysterious  air,  and  informed 
me,  in  a  low  voice,  that  once  upon  a  time,  on  a  dark  wintry 
night,  when  the  wind  was  unruly,  howling  and  whistling, 
banging  about  doors  and  windows,  and  twirling  weather- 
cocks, so  that  the  living  were  frightened  out  of  their  beds, 
and  even  the  dead  could  not  sleep  quietly  in  their  graves,  the 
ghost  of  honest  Preston,  which  happened  to  be  airing  itself 
in  the  churchyard,  was  attracted  by  the  well-known  call  of 
"waiter,"  from  the  Boar's  Head,  and  made  its  sudden  ap- 
pearance in  the  midst  of  a  roaring  club,  just  as  the  parish 
clerk  was  singing  a  stave  from  the  "mirrie  garland  of  Cap- 
tain Death";  to  the  discomfiture  of  sundry  train-band  cap- 
tains, and  the  conversion  of  an  infidel  attorney,  who  became 
a  zealous  Christian  on  the  spot,  and  was  never  known  to 
twist  the  truth  afterward,  except  in  the  way  of  business. 

I  beg  it  may  be  remembered  that  I  do  not  pledge  myself 
for  the  authenticity  of  this  anecdote ;  though  it  is  well  known 
that  the  churchyards  and  by-corners  of  this  old  metropolis 
are  very  much  infested  with  perturbed  spirits ;  and  every  one 


He  left  this  lyff  the  year  of  our  God 
Thirteen  hondred  fourscore  and  three  odd." 

An  error  in  the  foregoing  inscription  has  been  corrected  by  the 
venerable  Stow:  "Whereas,"  saith  he,  "it  hath  been  far  spread  abroad 
by  vulgar  opinion,  that  the  rebel  smitten  down  so  manfully  by  Sir 
William  Wai  worth,  the  then  worthy  Lord  Maior,  was  named  Jack 
Straw,  and  not  Wat  Tyler,  I  thought  good  to  reconcile  this  rash  con- 
ceived doubt  by  such  testimony  as  I  find  in  ancient  and  good  records. 
The  principal  leaders,  or  captains,  of  the  commons,  were  Wat  Tyler,  as 
the  first  man;  the  second  was  John,  or  Jack  Straw,  etc.,  etc." — STOW'S 
London. 


160  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$toi> 

must  have  heard  of  the  Cock  Lane  ghost,  and  the  apparition 
that  guards  the  regalia  in  the  Tower,  which  has  frightened 
so  many  bold  sentinels  almost  out  of  their  wits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Robert  Preston  seems  to  have 
been  a  worthy  successor  to  the  nimble-tongued  Francis,  who 
attended  upon  the  revels  of  Prince  Hal ;  to  have  been  equally 
prompt  with  his  "anon,  anon,  sir,"  and  to  have  transcended 
his  predecessor  in  honesty ;  for  Falstaff ,  the  veracity  of  whose 
taste  no  man  will  venture  to  impeach,  flatly  accuses  Francis 
of  putting  lime  in  his  sack;  whereas,  honest  Preston's  epitaph 
lauds  him  for  the  sobriety  of  his  conduct,  the  soundness  of 
his  wine,  and  the  fairness  of  his  measure.*  The  worthy  dig- 
nitaries of  the  church,  however,  did  not  appear  much  capti- 
vated by  the  sober  virtues  of  the  tapster :  the  deputy  organ- 
ist, who  had  a  moist  look  out  of  the  eye,  made  some  shrewd 
remark  on  the  abstemiousness  of  a  man  brought  up  among 
full  hogsheads ;  and  the  little  sexton  corroborated  his  opinion 
by  a  significant  wink  and  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head. 

Thus  far  my  researches,  though  they  threw  much  light 
on  the  histbry  of  tapsters,  fishmongers,  and  Lord  Mayors, 
yet  disappointed  me  hi  the  great  object  of  my  quest,  the 
picture  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  No  such  painting  was 
to  be  found  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael's.  "Marry  and 
amen!"  said  I,  "here  endeth  my  research!"  So  I  was  giv- 


*  As  this  inscription  is  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  transcribe  it 
for  the  admonition  of  delinquent  tapsters.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the  produc- 
tion of  some  choice  spirit  who  once  frequented  the  Boar's  Head. 

"Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  world  surprise, 
Produced  one  sober  son,  and  here  he  lies. 
Though  rear'd  among  full  hogsheads,  he  defied 
The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 
O  reader,  if  to  justice  thou'rt  inclined, 
Keep  honest  Preston  daily  in  thy  mind. 
He  drew  good  wine,  took  care  to  fill  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 
You  that  on  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependence, 
Pray  copy  Bob,  in  measure  and  attendance." 


161 

ing  the  matter  up,  with  the  air  of  a  baffled  antiquary,  when 
my  friend  the  sexton,  perceiving  me  to  be  curious  in  every- 
thing relative  to  the  old  tavern,  offered  to  show  me  the 
choice  vessels  of  the  vestry,  which  had  been  handed  down 
from  remote  times,  when  the  parish  meetings  were  held  at 
the  Boar's  Head.  These  were  deposited  in  the  parish  club- 
room,  which  had  been  transferred,  on  the  decline  of  the 
ancient  establishment,  to  a  tavern  in  the  neighborhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which  stands  No. 
12,  Mile  Lane,  bearing  the  title  of  The  Mason's  Arms,  and 
is  kept  by  Master  Edward  Honeyball,  the  "bully- rock"  of 
the  establishment.  It  is  one  of  those  little  taverns  which 
abound  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  form  the  center  of  gossip 
and  intelligence  of  the  neighborhood.  We  entered  the  bar- 
room, which  was  narrow  and  darkling;  for  in  these  close 
lanes  but  few  rays  of  reflected  light  are  enabled  to  struggle 
down  to  the  inhabitants,  whose  broad  day  is  at  best  but  a 
tolerable  twilight.  The  room  was  partitioned  into  boxes, 
each  containing  a  table  spread  with  a  clean  white  cloth, 
ready  for  dinner.  This  showed  that  the  guests  were  of  the 
good  old  stamp,  and  divided  their  day  equally,  for  it  was  but 
just  one  o'clock.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  room  was  a  clear 
coal  fire,  before  which  a  breast  of  lamb  was  roasting.  A 
row  of  bright  brass  candlesticks  and  pewter  mugs  glistened 
along  the  mantel-piece,  and  an  old-fashioned  clock  ticked  hi 
one  corner.  There  was  something  primitive  in  this  medley 
of  kitchen,  parlor,  and  hall,  that  carried  me  back  to  earlier 
times,  and  pleased  me.  The  place,  indeed,  was  humble,  but 
everything  had  that  look  of  order  and  neatness  which  be- 
speaks the  superintendence  of  a  notable  English  housewife. 
A  group  of  amphibious-looking  beings,  who  might  be  either  ' 
fishermen  or  sailors,  were  regaling  themselves  in  one  of  the 
boxes.  As  I  was  a  visitor  of  rather  higher  pretensions,  I 
was  ushered  into  a  little  misshapen  back  room,  having  at 
least  nine  corners.  It  was  lighted  by  a  skylight,  furnished 
with  antiquated  leathern  chairs,  and  ornamented  with  the 
portrait  of  a  fat  pig.  It  was  evidently  appropriated  to  par- 


162  U/orKe  of  U/asl?ii)<$too  Iruii)<? 

ticular  customers,  and  I  found  a  shabby  gentleman,  in  a  red 
nose  and  oil-cloth  hat,  seated  in  one  corner,  meditating  on  a 
half -empty  pot  of  porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside,  and  with  an 
air  of  profound  importance  imparted  to  her  my  errand.  Dame 
Honeyball  was  a  likely,  plump,  bustling  little  woman,  and 
no  bad  substitute  for  that  paragon  of  hostesses,  Dame 
Quickly.  She  seemed  delighted  with  an  opportunity  to 
oblige ;  and  hurrying  upstairs  to  the  archives  of  her  house, 
where  the  precious  vessels  of  the  parish  club  were  deposited, 
she  returned,  smiling  and  courtesying,  with  them  in  her 
hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned  iron  tobacco- 
box,  of  gigantic  size,  out  of  which,  I  was  told,  the  vestry 
had  smoked  at  their  stated  meetings  since  time  immemorial ; 
and  which  was  never  suffered  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar 
hands,  or  used  on  common  occasions.  I  received  it  with  be- 
coming reverence ;  but  what  was  my  delight  at  beholding  on 
its  cover  the  identical  painting  of  which  I  was  in  quest! 
There  was  displayed  the  outside  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern, 
and  before  the  door  was  to  be  seen  the  whole  convivial  group, 
at  table,  in  full  revel,  pictured  with  that  wonderful  fidelity 
and  force  with  which  the  portraits  of  renowned  generals  and 
commodores  are  illustrated  on  tobacco-boxes,  for  the  benefit 
of  posterity.  Lest,  however,  there  should  be  any  mistake, 
the  cunning  limner  had  warily  inscribed  the  names  of  Prince 
Hal  and  Falstaff  on  the  bottoms  of  their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription,  nearly  ob- 
literated, recording  that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir  Richard 
Gore,  for  the  use  of  the  vestry  meetings  at  the  Boar's  Head 
Tavern,  and  that  it  was  "repaired  and  beautified  by  his  suc- 
cessor, Mr.  John  Packard,  1767."  Such  is  a  faithful  descrip- 
tion of  this  august  and  venerable  relic,  and  I  question  whether 
the  learned  Scriblerius  contemplated  his  Roman  shield,  or  the 
Knights  of  the  Round  Table  the  long-sought  sangreal,  with 
more  exultation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured  gaze-  Dame 


Jl?e  SKetob-Book  163 


Honeyball,  who  was  highly  gratified  by  the  interest  it  ex- 
cited, put  in  my  hands  a  drinking  cup  or  goblet,  which  also 
belonged  to  the  vestry,  and  was  descended  from  the  old 
Boar's  Head.  It  bore  the  inscription  of  having  been  the  gift 
of  Francis  Wythers,  Knight,  and  was  held,  she  told  me,  in 
exceeding  great  value,  being  considered  very  "antyke." 
This  last  opinion  was  strengthened  by  the  shabby  gentleman 
with  the  red  nose  and  oil-cloth  hat,  and  whom  I  strongly  sus- 
pected of  being  a  lineal  descendant  from  the  valiant  Bar- 
dolph.  He  suddenly  aroused  from  his  meditation  on  the  pot 
of  porter,  and,  casting  a  knowing  look  at  the  goblet,  ex- 
claimed, "Ay,  ay,  the  head  don't  ache  now  that  made  that 
there  article." 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  memento  of  an- 
cient revelry  by  modern  churchwardens  at  first  puzzled  me; 
but  there  is  nothing  sharpens  the  apprehension  so  much  as 
antiquarian  research;  for  I  immediately  perceived  that  this 
could  be  no  other  than  the  identical  "parcel-gilt  goblet"  on 
which  Falstaff  made  his  loving  but  faithless  vow  to  Dame 
Quickly  ;  and  which  would,  of  course,  be  treasured  up  with 
care  among  the  regalia  of  her  domains  as  a  testimony  of  that 
solemn  contract.* 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history  how  the 
goblet  had  been  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation. 
She  also  entertained  me  with  many  particulars  concerning 
the  worthy  vestrymen  who  have  seated  themselves  thus 
quietly  on  the  stools  of  the  ancient  roisterers  of  Eastcheap, 
and,  like  so  many  commentators,  utter  clouds  of  smoke  in 
honor  of  Shakespeare.  These  I  forbear  to  relate,  lest  my 
readers  should  not  be  as  curious  in  these  matters  as  myself. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  the  neighbors,  one  and  all,  about  Eastcheap, 

*  "Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my 
Dolphin  Chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  on  Wednesday 
in  Whitsun-week,  when  the  Prince  broke  thy  head  for  likening  his 
father  to  a  singing  man  of  Windsor  ;  thou  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I 
was  washing  thy  wound,  to  marry  me,  and  make  me  my  lady,  thy 
wife.  Canst  thou  deny  it?'—  Henry  IV.,  Part  2. 


164  U/or^s  of 

believe  that  Falstaff  and  his  merry  crew  actually  lived  and 
reveled  there.  Nay,  there  are  several  legendary  anecdotes 
concerning  him  still  extant  among  the  oldest  frequenters  of 
the  Mason's  Arms,  which  they  give  as  transmitted  down 
from  their  forefathers;  and  Mr.  M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair- 
dresser, whose  shop  stands  on  the  site  of  the  old  Boar's 
Head,  has  several  dry  jokes  of  Fat  Jack's,  not^laid  down  in 
the  books,  with  which  he  makes  his  customers  ready  to  die 
of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  make  some 
further  inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in  pensive  medita- 
tion. His  head  had  declined  a  little  on  one  side;  a  deep  sigh 
heaved  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  stomach,  and,  though  I 
could  not  see  a  tear  trembling  in  his  eye,  yet  a  moisture  was 
evidently  stealing  from  a  corner  of  his  mouth.  I  followed 
the  direction  of  his  eye  through  the  door  which  stood  open, 
and  found  it  fixed  wistfully  on  the  savory  breast  of  lamb, 
roasting  in  dripping  richness  before  the  fire. 

I  now  called  to  mind,  that  in  the  eagerness  of  my  recon- 
dite investigation  I  was  keeping  the  poor  man  from  his  din- 
ner. My  bowels  yearned  with  sympathy,  and,  putting  in  his 
hand  a  small  token  of  my  gratitude  and  good- will,  I  departed 
with  a  hearty  benediction  on  him,  Dame  Honeyball,  and  the 
parish  club  of  Crooked  Lane — not  forgetting  my  shabby  but 
sententious  friend  in  the  oil-cloth  hat  and  copper  nose. 

Thus  have  I  given  a  "tedious  brief"  account  of  this  in- 
teresting research ;  for  which,  if  it  prove  too  short  and  unsat- 
isfactory, I  can  only  plead  my  inexperience  in  this  branch  of 
literature,  so  deservedly  popular  at  the  present  day.  I  am 
aware  that  a  more  skillful  illustrator  of  the  immortal  bard 
would  have  swelled  the  materials  I  have  touched  upon  to  a 
good  merchantable  bulk,  comprising  the  biographies  of  Wil- 
liam "Walworth,  Jack  Straw,  and  Robert  Preston ;  some  no- 
tice of  the  eminent  fishmongers  of  St.  Michael's ;  the  history 
of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little;  private  anecdotes  of  Dame 
Honeyball  and  her  pretty  daughter,  whom  I  have  not  even 
mentioned :  to  say  nothing  of  a  damsel  tending  the  breast  of 


165 

lamb  (and  whom,  by  the  way,  I  remarked  to  be  a  comely 
lass,  with  a  neat  foot  and  ankle) ;  the  whole  enlivened  by 
the  riots  of  Wat  Tyler,  and  illuminated  by  the  great  fire  of 
London. 

All  this  I  leave  as  a  rich  mine,  to  be  worked  by  future 
commentators;  nor  do  I  despair  of  seeing  the  tobacco-box 
and  the  "parcel-gilt  goblet,"  which  I  have  thus  brought  to 
light,  the  subject  of  future  engravings,  and  almost  as  fruit- 
ful of  voluminous  dissertations  and  disputes  as  the  shield  of 
Achilles,  or  the  far-famed  Portland  vase. 


THE    MUTABILITY    OF    LITERATURE 

A    COLLOQUY    IN    WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 

"I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  naught, 

I  know  that  all  the  muses'  heavenly  layes, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 
That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise." 

— DRUMMOND  OF  HAWTHORNDEN 

THERE  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind,  in 
which  we.  naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare,  and 
seek  some  quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our  reveries 
and  build  our  air  castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a  mood,  I 
was  loitering  about  the  old  gray  cloisters  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  enjoying  that  luxury  of  wandering  thought  which 
one  is  apt  to  dignify  with  the  name  of  reflection ;  when  sud- 
denly an  irruption  of  madcap  boys  from  Westminster  school, 
playing  at  football,  broke  in  upon  the  monastic  stillness  of 
the  place,  making  the  vaulted  passages  and  mouldering  tombs 
echo  with  their  merriment.  I  sought  to  take  refuge  from 
their  noise  by  penetrating  still  deeper  into  the  solitudes  of 


166  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii7<jtor? 

the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of  the  vergers  for  admission  to 
the  library.  He  conducted  me  through  a  portal  rich  with 
the  crumbling  sculpture  of  former  ages,  which  opened  upon 
a  gloomy  passage  leading  to  the  Chapter  House,  and  the 
chamber  in  which  Doomsday  Book  is  deposited.  Just  within 
the  passage  is  a  small  door  on  the  left.  To  this  the  verger 
applied  a  key;  it  was  double  locked,  and  opened  with  some 
difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used.  We  now  ascended  a  dark  nar- 
row staircase,  and  passing  through  a  second  door,  entered 
the  library. 

I  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof  supported 
by  massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was  soberly  lighted 
by  a  row  of  gothic  windows  at  a  considerable  height  from 
the  floor,  and  which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the 
cloisters.  An  ancient  picture  of  some  reverend  dignitary  of 
the  church  in  his  robes  hung  over  the  fireplace.  Around  the 
hall  and  in  a  small  gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in  carved 
oaken  cases.  They  consisted  principally  of  old  polemical 
writers,  and  were  much  more  worn  by  time  than  use.  In 
the  center  of  the  library  was  a  solitary  table,  with  two  or 
three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand  without  ink,  and  a  few  pens 
parched  by  long  disuse.  The  place  seemed  fitted  for  quiet 
study  and  profound  meditation.  It  was  buried  deep  among 
the  massive  walls  of  the  abbey,  and  shut  up  from  the  tumult 
of  the  world.  I  could  only  hear  now  and  then  the  shouts  of 
the  schoolboys  faintly  swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the 
sound  of  a  bell  tolling  for  prayers,  that  echoed  soberly  along 
the  roofs  of  the  abbey.  By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died  away.  The  bell 
ceased  to  toll,  and  a  profound  silence  reigned  through  the 
dusky  hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously  bound 
in  parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  myself  at  the 
table  in  a  venerable  elbow-chair.  Instead  of  reading,  how- 
ever, I  was  beguiled  by  the  solemn  monastic  air  and  lifeless 
quiet  of  the  place,  into  a  train  of  musing.  As  I  looked 
around  upon  the  old  volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus 


Jl?e  SKetG^-BooK  167 

ranged  on  the  shelves,  and  apparently  never  disturbed  in 
their  repose,  I  could  not  but  consider  the  library  a  kind  of 
literary  catacomb,  where  authors,  like  mummies,  are  piously 
entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and  moulder  in  dusty  oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes,  now 
thrust  aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  aching  head — 
how  many  weary  days !  how  many  sleepless  nights !  How 
have  their  authors  buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of 
ceUs  and  cloisters;  shut  themselves  up  from  the  face  of 
man,  and  the  still  more  blessed  face  of  Nature ;  and  devoted 
themselves  to  painful  research  and  intense  reflection !  And 
all  for  what?  to  occupy  an  inch  of  dusty  shelf — to  have  the 
titles  of  their  works  read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by 
some  drowsy  churchman,  or  casual  straggler  like  myself; 
and  in  another  age  to  be  lost  even  to  remembrance.  Such  is 
the  amount  of  this  boasted  immortality.  A  mere  temporary 
rumor,  a  local  sound ;  like  the  tone  of  that  bell  which  has 
just  tolled  among  these  towers,  filling  the  ear  for  a  moment 
— lingering  transiently  in  echo — and  then  passing  away,  like 
a  thing  that  was  not ! 

While  I  sat  half -murmuring,  half -meditating  these  un- 
profitable speculations,  with  my  head  resting  on  my  hand,  I 
was  thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon  the  quarto,  until 
I  accidentally  loosened  the  clasps;  when,  to  my  utter  aston- 
ishment, the  little  book  gave  two  or  three  yawns,  like  one 
awaking  from  a  deep  sleep ;  then  a  husky  hem,  and  at  length 
began  to  talk.  At  first  its  voice  was  very  hoarse  and  broken, 
being  much  troubled  by  a  cobweb  which  some  studious  spider 
had  woven  across  it ;  and  having  probably  contracted  a  cold 
from  long  exposure  to  the  chills  and  damps  of  the  abbey.  In 
a  short  time,  however,  it  became  more  distinct,  and  I  soon 
found  it  an  exceedingly  fluent  conversable  little  tome.  Its 
language,  to  be  sure,  was  rather  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its 
pronunciation  what  in  the  present  day  would  be  deemed  bar- 
barous; but  I  shall  endeavor,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render 
it  in  modern  parlance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world— 


168  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii}$toi) 

about  merit  being  suffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and  other 
such  commonplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and  complained 
bitterly  that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  more  than  two  cent- 
uries;—that  the  Dean  only  looked  now  and  then  into  the 
library,  sometimes  took  down  a  volume  or  two,  trifled  with 
them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  returned  them  to  their 
shelves. 

"What  a  plague  do  they  mean,"  said  the  little  quarto, 
which  I  began  to  perceive  was  somewhat  choleric,  "what  a 
plague  do  they  mean  by  keeping  several  thousand  volumes 
of  us  shut  up  here,  and  watched  by  a  set  of  old  vergers,  like 
so  many  beauties  in  a  harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at  now 
and  then  by  the  Dean?  Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure 
and  to  be  enjoyed;  and  I  would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the 
Dean  should  pay  each  of  us  a  visit  at  least  once  a  year;  or 
if  he  is  not  equal  to  the  task,  let  them  once  in  a  while  turn 
loose  the  whole  school  of  Westminster  among  us,  that  at  any 
rate  we  may  now  and  then  have  an  airing." 

"Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I,  "you  are  not  aware 
how  much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books  of  your  gen- 
eration. By  being  stored  away  in  this  ancient  library  you 
are  like  the  treasured  remains  of  those  saints  and  monarchs 
which  lie  enshrined  in  the  adjoining  chapels ;  while  the  re- 
mains of  their  contemporary  mortals,  left  to  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature,  have  long  since  returned  to  dust." 

"Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and  looking 
big,  "I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  bookworms 
of  an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from  hand  to  hand, 
like  other  great  contemporary  works ;  but  here  have  I  been 
clasped  up  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and  might  have 
silently  fallen  a  prey  to  these  worms  that  are  playing  the 
very  vengeance  with  my  intestines,  if  you  had  not  by  chance 
given  me  an  opportunity  of  uttering  a  few  last  words  before 
I  go  to  pieces." 

"My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "had  you  been  left  to  the 
circulation  of  which  you  speak  you  would  long  ere  this  have 
been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physiognomy,  you  are 


Jl?e  SKetelT-BooK  169 

now  well  stricken  in  years  ,-  very  few  of  your  contemporaries 
can  be  at  present  in  existence;  and  those  few  owe  their  lon- 
gevity to  being  immured  like  yourself  in  old  libraries ;  which, 
suffer  me  to  add,  instead  of  likening  to  harems,  you  might 
more  properly  and  gratefully  have  compared  to  those  in- 
firmaries attached  to  religious  establishments  for  the  benefit 
of  the  old  and  decrepit,  and  where,  by  quiet  fostering  and 
no  employment,  they  often  endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for- 
nothing  old  age.  You  talk  of  your  contemporaries  as  if  in 
circulation — where  do  we  meet  with  their  works? — what  do 
we  hear  of  Robert  Groteste  of  Lincoln?  No  one  could  have 
toiled  harder  than  he  for  immortality.  He  is  said  to  have 
written  nearly  two  hundred  volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were, 
a  pyramid  of  books  to  perpetuate  his  name ;  but,  alas !  the 
pyramid  has  long  since  fallen,  and  only  a  few  fragments  are 
scattered  in  various  libraries,  where  they  are  scarcely  dis- 
turbed even  by  the  antiquarian.  What  do  we  hear  of  Gi- 
raldus  Cambrensis,  the  historian,  antiquary,  philosopher,  theo- 
logian, and  poet?  He  declined  two  bishoprics  that  he  might 
shut  himself  up  and  write  for  posterity;  but  posterity  never 
inquires  after  his  labors.  "What  of  Henry  of  Huntingdon, 
who,  besides  a  learned  history  of  England,  wrote  a  treatise 
on  the  contempt  of  the  world,  which  the  world  has  revenged 
by  forgetting  him?  What  is  quoted  of  Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled 
the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  composition?  Of  his  three 
great  heroic  poems,  one  is  lost  forever,  excepting  a  mere 
fragment ;  the  others  are  known  only  to  a  few  of  the  curious 
in  literature;  and  as  to  his  love  verses  and  epigrams,  they 
have  entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of  John 
Wallis,  the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the  tree, 
of  life? — of  William  of  Malmsbury ;  of  Simeon  of  Durham ; 
of  Benedict  of  Peterborough;  of  John  Hanvill  of  St.  Albans; 
of—  " 

"Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto  in  a  testy  tone,  "how 
old  do  you  think  me?  You  are  talking  of  authors  that  lived 
long  before  my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin  or  French, 
so  that  they  in  a  manner  expatriated  themselves,  and  de- 
***8  VOL.  I. 


170  U/ork»  of 


served  to  be  forgotten;*  but  I,  sir,  was  ushered  into  the 
world  from  the  press  of  the  renowned  Wynkyn  de  Worde. 
I  was  written  in  my  own  native  tongue,  at  a  time  when  the 
language  had  become  fixed;  and,  indeed,  I  was  considered 
a  model  of  pure  and  elegant  English." 

[I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched  in 
such  intolerably  antiquated  terms  that  I  have  had  infinite 
difficulty  in  rendering  them  into  modern  phraseology.] 

"I  cry  you  mercy,"  said  I,  "for  mistaking  your  age;  but 
it  matters  little  ;  almost  all  the  writers  of  your  time  have 
likewise  passed  into  f  orgetf  ulness  ;  and  De  Worde  's  publica- 
tions are  mere  literary  rarities  among  book-collectors.  The 
purity  and  stability  of  language,  too,  on  which  you  found 
your  claims  to  perpetuity,  have  been  the  fallacious  depend- 
ence of  authors  of  every  age,  even  back  to  the  times  of  the 
worthy  Robert  of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  his  history  in 
rhymes  of  mongrel  Saxon.  f  Even  now  many  talk  of 
Spenser's  'well  of  pure  English  undefiled,'  as  if  the  lan- 
guage ever  sprang  from  a  well  or  fountain-head,  and  was 
not  rather  a  mere  confluence  of  various  tongues,  perpetually 
subject  to  changes  and  intermixtures.  It  is  this  which  has 
made  English  literature  so  extremely  mutable,  and  the  repu- 
tation built  upon  it  so  fleeting.  Unless  thought  can  be  com- 
mitted to  something  more  permanent  and  unchangeable  than 


*  "In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  soueraine  wittes  had  great  delyte 
to  endyte,  and  have  many  noble  things  fulfllde,  but  certes  there  ben 
some  that  speaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of  which  speche  the  French- 
men have  as  good  a  fantasy e  as  we  have  in  hearing  of  Frenchmen's 
Englishe." — CHAUCER'S  Testament  of  Love, 

f  Holinshed,  in  his  "Chronicle,"  observes,  "afterwards,  also,  by  dili- 
gent travell  of  Geffry  Chaucer  and  John  Gowrie,  in  the  time  of  Richard 
the  Second,  and  after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John  Lydgate,  monke 
of  Berrie,  our  said  toong  was  brought  to  an  excellent  passe,  notwith- 
standing that  it  never  came  unto  the  type  of  perfection  until  the 
tune  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wherein  John  Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John 
Fox,  and  sundrie  learned  and  excellent  writers,  have  fully  accomplished 
the  ornature  of  the  same,  to  their  great  praise  and  immortal  commen- 
dation." 


ftpe  SKetel?-BooK  171 

such  a  medium,  even  thought  must  share  the  fate  of  every- 
thing else,  and  fall  into  decay.  This  should  serve  as  a  check 
upon  the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most  popular  writer. 
He  finds  the  language  in  which  he  has  embarked  his  fame 
gradually  altering,  and  subject  to  the  dilapidations  of  time 
and  the  caprice  of  fashion.  He  looks  back,  and  beholds  the 
early  authors  of  his  country,  once  the  favorites  of  their  day, 
supplanted  by  modern  writers :  a  few  short  ages  have  covered 
them  with  obscurity,  and  their  merits  can  only  be  relished 
by  the  quaint  taste  of  the  bookworm.  And  such,  he  antici- 
pates, will  be  the  fate  of  his  own  work,  which,  however  it 
may  be  admired  in  its  day,  and  held  up  as  a  model  of  purity, 
will,  in  the  course  of  years,  grow  antiquated  and  obsolete, 
until  it  shall  become  almost  as  unintelligible  in  its  native  land 
as  an  Egyptian  obelisk,  or  one  of  those  Runic  inscriptions, 
said  to  exist  in  the  deserts  of  Tartary.  I  declare,"  added  I, 
with  some  emotion,  "when  I  contemplate  a  modern  library, 
filled  with  new  works  in  all  the  bravery  of  rich  gilding  and 
binding,  I  feel  disposed  to  sit  down  and  weep;  like  the  good 
Xerxes,  when  he  surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out  in  all  the 
splendor  of  military  array,  and  reflected  that  in  one  hundred 
years  not  one  of  them  would  be  in  existence!" 

"Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "I  see 
how  it  is ;  these  modern  scribblers  have  superseded  all  the 
good  old  authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read  nowadays  but 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "Arcadia,"  Sackville's  stately  plays  and 
"Mirror  for  Magistrates,"  or  the  fine  spun  euphuisms  of  the 
'unparalleled  John  Lyly.'  ' 

"There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I;  "the  writers 
whom  you  suppose  hi  vogue,  because  they  happened  to  be  so, 
when  you  were  last  in  circulation,  have  long  since  had  their 
day.  Sir  Philip  Sidney's ' '  Arcadia, ' '  the  immortality  of  which 
was  so  fondly  predicted  by  his  admirers,*  and  which,  in 

*  "Live  ever  sweete  booke ;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  witt  and 
the  golden  pillar  of  his  noble  courage ;  and  ever  notify  unto  the  world 
that  thy  writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the  breath  of  the  muses, 


172  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii?$tor> 

truth,  was  full  of  noble  thoughts,  delicate  images,  and  grace- 
ful turns  of  language,  is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned.  Sack- 
ville  has  strutted  into  obscurity ;  and  even  Lyly,  though  his 
writings  were  once  the  delight  of  a  court,  and  apparently 
perpetuated  by  a  proverb,  is  now  scarcely  known  even  by 
name.  A  whole  crowd  of  authors  who  wrote  and  wrangled 
at  the  time  have  likewise  gone  down  with  all  their  writings 
and  their  controversies.  Wave  after  wave  of  succeeding 
literature  has  rolled  over  them,  until  they  are  buried  so  deep 
that  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  some  industrious  diver  after 
fragments  of  antiquity  brings  up  a  specimen  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  the  curious. 

"For  my  part,"  I  continued,  "I  consider  this  mutability 
of  language  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world  at  large,  and  of  authors  in  particular.  To  rea- 
son from  analogy :  we  daily  behold  the  varied  and  beautiful 
tribes  of  vegetables  springing  up,  flourishing,  adorning  the 
fields  for  a  short  time,  and  then  fading  into  dust,  to  make 
way  for  their  successors.  Were  not  this  the  case,  the  fecun- 
dity of  nature  would  be  a  grievance  instead  of  a  blessing : 
the  earth  would  groan  with  rank  and  excessive  vegetation, 
and  its  surface  become  a  tangled  wilderness.  In  like  man- 
ner the  works  of  genius  and  learning  decline  and  make  way 
for  subsequent  productions.  Language  gradually  varies, 
and  with  it  fade  away  the  writings  of  authors  who  have 
flourished  their  allotted  time ;  otherwise  the  creative  powers 
of  genius  would  overstock  the  world,  and  the  mind  would 
be  completely  bewildered  in  the  endless  mazes  of  literature. 
Formerly  there  were  some  restraints  on  this  excessive  multi- 
plication :  works  had  to  be  transcribed  by  hand,  which  was 
a  slow  and  laborious  operation ;  they  were  written  either  on 
parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so  that  one  work  was  often 


the  honey  bee  of  the  dainty est  flowers  of  witt  and  arte,  the  pith  of 
morale  and  the  intellectual  virtues,  the  arme  of  Bellona  in  the  field, 
the  tongue  of  Suada  in  the  chamber,  the  spirite  of  Practise  in  esse,  and 
the  paragon  of  excellency  in  print." — HARVEY'S  Pierce1  s  Supererogation. 


fl?e  »Ketel?-BooK  173 

erased  to  make  way  for  another;  or  on  papyrus,  which  was 
fragile  and  extremely  perishable.  Authorship  was  a  limited 
and  unprofitable  craft,  pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the  leisure 
and  solitude  of  their  cloisters.  The  accumulation  of  manu- 
scripts was  slow  and  costly,  and  confined  almost  entirely  to 
monasteries.  To  these  circumstances  it  may,  in  some  meas- 
ure, be  owing  that  we  have  not  been  inundated  by  the  intel- 
lect of  antiquity;  that  the  fountains  of  thought  have  not 
been  broken  up,  and  modern  genius  drowned  in  the  deluge. 
But  the  inventions  of  paper  and  the  press  have  put  an  end  to 
all  these  restraints :  they  have  made  every  one  a  writer,  and 
enabled  every  mind  to  pour  itself  into  print,  and  diffuse  itself 
over  the  whole  intellectual  world.  The  consequences  are 
alarming.  The  stream  of  literature  has  swollen  into  a  tor- 
rent—augmented into  a  river — expanded  into  a  sea.  A  few 
centuries  since  five  or  six  hundred  manuscripts  constituted  a 
great  library ;  but  what  would  you  say  to  libraries,  such  as 
actually  exist,  containing  three  or  four  hundred  thousand 
volumes ;  legions  of  authors  at  the  same  time  busy ;  and  a 
press  going  on  with  fearfully  increasing  activity,  to  double 
and  quadruple  the  number?  Unless  some  unforeseen  mortal- 
ity should  break  out  among  the  progeny  of  the  Muse,  now 
that  she  has  become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity.  I 
fear  the  mere  fluctuation  of  language  will  not  be  sufficient. 
Criticism  may  do  much;  it  increases  with  the  increase  of 
literature,  and  resembles  one  of  those  salutary  checks  on 
population  spoken  of  by  economists.  All  possible  encourage- 
ment, therefore,  should  be  given  to  the  growth  of  critics, 
good  or  bad.  But  I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain ;  let  criticism  do 
what  it  may,  writers  will  write,  printers  will  print,  and  thet 
world  will  inevitably  be  overstocked  with  good  books.  It  will 
soon  be  the  employment  of  a  lifetime  merely  to  learn  their 
names.  Many  a  man  of  passable  information  at  the  present 
day  reads  scarcely  anything  but  reviews,  and  before  long  a 
man  of  erudition  will  be  little  better  than  a  mere  walking 
catalogue." 

"My  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning  most 


174  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip<$toi} 

drearily  in  my  face,  "excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I  per- 
ceive you  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the  fate  of 
an  author  who  was  making  some  noise  just  as  I  left  the 
world.  His  reputation,  however,  was  considered  quite  tem- 
porary. The  learned  shook  their  heads  at  him,  for  he  was  a 
poor,  half- educated  varlet  that  knew  little  of  Latin,  and 
nothing  of  Greek,  and  had  been  obliged  to  run  the  country 
for  deer-stealing.  I  think  his  name  was  Shakespeare.  I 
presume  he  soon  sunk  into  oblivion." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "it  is  owing  to  that  very  man 
that  the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced  a  duration 
beyond  the  ordinary  term  of  English  literature.  There 
arise  authors  now  and  then  who  seem  proof  against  the 
mutability  of  language,  because  they  have  rooted  themselves 
in  the  unchanging  principles  of  human  nature.  They  are 
like  gigantic  trees  that  we  sometimes  see  on  the  banks  of  a 
stream,  which,  by  their  vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrating 
through  the  mere  surface,  and  laying  hold  on  the  very 
foundations  of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil  around  them  from 
being  swept  away  by  the  overflowing  current,  and  hold  up 
many  a  neighboring  plant,  and,  perhaps,  worthless  weed,  to 
perpetuity.  Such  is  the  case  with  Shakespeare,  whom  we 
behold,  defying  the  encroachments  of  time,  retaining  in 
modern  use  the  language  and  literature  of  his  day,  and 
giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent  author  merely  from 
having  flourished  in  his  vicinity.  But  even  he,  I  grieve  to 
say,  is  gradually  assuming  the  tint  of  age,  and  his  whole 
form  is  overrun  by  a  profusion  of  commentators,  who,  like 
clambering  vines  and  creepers,  almost  bury  the  noble  plant 
that  upholds  them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and 
chuckle,  until  at  length  he  broke  out  into  a  plethoric  fit  of 
laughter  that  had  welhiigh  choked  him,  by  reason  of  his  ex- 
cessive corpulency.  "Mighty  well!"  cried  he,  as  soon  as  he 
could  recover  breath,  "mighty  well!  and  so  you  would  per- 
suade me  that  the  literature  of  an  age  is  to  be  perpetuated 
by  a  vagabond  deer-stealer !  by  a  man  without  learning !  by 


Jl?e  SKetefo-BooK  175 

a  poet!  forsooth — a  poet!"  And  here  he  wheezed  forth  an- 
other fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness, 
which,  however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having  flour- 
ished in  a  less  polished  age.  I  determined,  nevertheless,  not 
to  give  up  my  point. 

"Yes,"  resumed  I,  positively,  "a  poet;  for  of  all  writers 
he  has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  may  write 
from  the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  heart,  and  the  heart 
will  always  understand  him.  He  is  the  faithful  portray er  of 
Nature,  whose  features  are  always  the  same,  and  always  in- 
teresting. Prose  writers  are  voluminous  and  unwieldy ;  their 
pages  crowded  with  commonplaces,  and  their  thoughts  ex- 
panded into  tediousness.  But  with  the  true  poet  everything 
is  terse,  touching,  or  brilliant.  He  gives  the  choicest  thoughts 
in  the  choicest  language.  He  illustrates  them  by  everything 
that  he  sees  most  striking  in  nature  and  art.  He  enriches 
them  by  pictures  of  human  life,  such  as  it  is,  passing  before 
him.  His  writings,  therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the  aroma, 
if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  They 
are  caskets  which  inclose  within  a  small  compass  the  wealth 
of  the  language — its  family  jewels,  which  are  thus  trans- 
mitted in  a  portable  form  to  posterity.  The  setting  may  oc- 
casionally be  antiquated,  and  require  now  and  then  to  be 
renewed,  as  in  the  case  of  Chaucer;  but  the  brilliancy  and 
intrinsic  value  of  the  gems  continue  unaltered.  Cast  a  look 
back  over  the  long  reach  of  literary  history.  What  vast  val- 
leys of  dullness,  filled  with  monkish  legends  and  academical 
controversies!  What  bogs  of  theological  speculations !  What 
dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics !  Here  and  there  only  do  we, 
behold  the  heaven-illumined  bards,  elevated  like  beacons  on 
their  widely-separated  heights,  to  transmit  the  pure  light  of 
poetical  intelligence  from  age  to  age."  * 

*  "Thorow  earth,  and  waters  deepe, 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe: 
And  featly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse, 
v  And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse, 


176  U/orKs  of  UYa8l?ir>$tor>  Iruir>$ 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon  the 
poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door  caused 
me  to  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  verger,  who  came  to  in- 
form me  that  it  was  time  to  close  the  library.  I  sought  to 
have  a  parting  word  with  the  quarto,  but  the  worthy  little 
tome  was  silent;  the  clasps  were  closed;  and  it  looked  per- 
fectly unconscious  of  all  that  had  passed.  I  have  been  to 
the  library  two  or  three  times  since,  and  have  endeavored  to 
draw  it  into  further  conversation,  but  in  vain :  and  whether 
all  this  rambling  colloquy  actually  took  place,  or  whether  it 
was  another  of  those  odd  day-dreams  to  which  I  am  subject, 
I  have  never,  to  this  moment,  been  able  to  discover. 


RURAL    FUNERALS 

"Here's  a  few  flowers!  but  about  midnight  more; 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the  night 
Are  strewings  fitt'st  for  graves— 
You  were  as  flowers  now  withered:  even  so 
These  herblets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strovv." 

— Cymbeline 

AMONG  the  beautiful  and  simple-hearted  customs  of  rural 
life  which  still  linger  in  some  parts  of  England  are  those  of 
strewing  flowers  before  the  funerals  and  planting  them  at 
the  graves  of  departed  friends.  These,  it  is  said,  are  the  re- 
mains of  some  of  the  rites  of  the  primitive  church;  but  they 
are  of  still  higher  antiquity,  having  been  observed  among  the 


The  vertu  and  the  vice 

Of  every  wight  alyve ; 
The  honey  combe  that  bee  doth  make, 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hyve, 
As  are  the  golden  leves 

That  drops  from  poet's  head ; 
Which  doth  surmount  our  common  talke, 

As  farre  as  dross  doth  lead."— CHURCHYARD 


Tl?e  Sketel?-BooK  17T 

Greeks  and  Romans,  and  frequently  mentioned  by  theii 
writers,  and  were,  no  doubt,  the  spontaneous  tributes  of 
unlettered  affection,  originating  long  before  art  had  tasked 
itself  to  modulate  sorrow  into  song,  or  story  it  on  the  monu- 
ment. They  are  now  only  to  be  met  with  in  the  most  dis- 
tant and  retired  places  of  the  kingdom,  where  fashion  and 
innovation  have  not  been  able  to  throng  in,  and  trample  out 
all  the  curious  and  interesting  traces  of  the  olden  time. 

In  Glamorganshire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  whereon  the 
corpse  lies  is  covered  with  flowers,  a  custom  alluded  to  in 
one  of  the  wild  and  plaintive  ditties  of  Ophelia :  . 

"White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 

Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers ; 
Which  be-wept  to  the  grave  did  go, 
With  true  love  showers." 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiful  rite  observed 
in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of  the  south,  at  the  funeral  of 
a  female  who  has  died  young  and  unmarried.  A  chaplet 
of  white  flowers  is  borne  before  the  corpse  by  a  young  girl, 
nearest  in  age,  size,  and  resemblance,  and  is  afterward  hung 
up  in  the  church  over  the  accustomed  seat  of  the  deceased. 
These  chaplets  are  sometimes  made  of  white  paper,  in  imita- 
tion of  flowers,  and  inside  of  them  is  generally  a  pair  of  white 
gloves.  They  are  intended  as  emblems  of  the  purity  of  the 
deceased,  and  the  crown  of  glory  which  she  has  received  in 
heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also,  the  dead  are  carried 
to  the  grave  with  the  singing  of  psalms  and  hymns;  a  kind 
of  triumph,  "to  show,"  says  Bourne,  "that  they  have  fin-, 
ished  their  course  with  joy,  and  are  become  conquerors." 
This,  I  am  informed,  is  observed  in  some  of  the  northern 
counties,  particularly  hi  Northumberland,  and  it  has  a  pleas- 
ing, though  melancholy  effect,  to  hear,  of  a  still  evening,  in 
some  lonely  country  scene,  the  mournful  melody  of  a  funeral 
dirge  swelling  from  a  distance,  and  to  see  the  tram  slowly 
moving  along  the  landscape. 


178  U/or^s  of  U/asbii?<$tor>  Iruir?«$ 

"Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compass  round 
Thy  harmless  and  unhaunted  ground, 
And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 

The  Daffodill 

And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  stone."— HEEEICK. 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the  traveler  to  the 
passing  funeral  in  these  sequestered  places ;  for  such  spec- 
tacles, occurring  among  the  quiet  abodes  of  Nature,  sink  deep 
into  the  soul.  As  the  mourning  train  approaches,  he  pauses, 
uncovered,  to  let  it  go  by;  he  then  follows  silently  in  the 
rear;  sometimes  quite  to  the  grave,  at  other  times  for  a  few 
hundred  yards,  and  having  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  to  the 
deceased,  turns  and  resumes  his  journey. 

The  rich  vein  of  melancholy  which  runs  through  the  En- 
glish character,  and  gives  it  some  of  its  most  touching  and 
ennobling  graces,  is  finely  evidenced  in  these  pathetic  cus- 
toms, and  in  the  solicitude  shown  by  the  common  people  for 
an  honored  and  a  peaceful  grave.  The  humblest  peasant, 
whatever  may  be  his  lowly  lot  while  living,  is  anxious  that 
some  little  respect  may  be  paid  to  his  remains.  Sir  Thomas 
Overbury,  describing  the  "faire  and  happy  milkmaid,"  ob- 
serves, "thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care  is  that  she  may  die 
in  the  springtime,  to  have  store  of  flowers  stucke  upon  her 
winding-sheet."  The  poets,  too,  who  always  breathe  the 
feeling  of  a  nation,  continually  advert  to  this  fond  solicitude 
about  the  grave.  In  "The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  by  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  the  kind,  de- 
scribing the  capricious  melancholy  of  a  broken-hearted  girl. 

"When  she  sees  a  bank 

Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she,  with  a  sigh,  will  tell 
Her  servants,  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in ;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse." 

The  custom  of  decorating  graves  was  once  universally 
prevalent :  osiers  were  carefully  bent  over  them  to  keep  the 


fl?e  SKetel?-BooK  179 

turf  uninjured,  and  about  them  were  planted  evergreens  and 
flowers.  "We  adorn  their  graves,"  says  Evelyn,  in  his 
"Sylva,"  "with  flowers  and  redolent  plants,  just  emblems  of 
the  life  of  man,  which  has  been  compared  in  Holy  Scriptures 
to  those  fading  beauties,  whose  roots,  being  buried  in  dis- 
honor, rise  again  in  glory."  This  usage  has  now  become 
extremely  rare  in  England ;  but  it  may  still  be  met  with  in 
the  churchyards  of  retired  villages  among  the  Welsh  moun- 
tains; and  I  recollect  an  instance  of  it  at  the  small  town 
of  Ruthven,  which  lies  at  the  head  of  the  beautiful  vale  of 
Clewyd.  I  have  been  told  also  by  a  friend,  who  was  present 
at  the  funeral  of  a  young  girl  in  Glamorganshire,  that  the 
female  attendants  had  their  aprons  full  of  flowers,  which, 
as  soon  as  the  body  was  interred,  they  stuck  about  the 
grave. 

He  noticed  several  graves  which  had  been  decorated  in 
the  same  manner.  As  the  flowers  had  been  merely  stuck 
in  the  ground,  and  not  planted,  they  had  soon  withered,  and 
might  be  seen  in  various  states  of  decay;  some  drooping, 
others  quite  perished.  They  were  afterward  to  be  supplanted 
by  holly,  rosemary,  and  other  evergreens;  which  on  some 
graves  had  grown  to  great  luxuriance,  and  overshadowed 
the  tombstones. 

There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fancifulness  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  these  rustic  offerings  that  had  something  in  it 
truly  poetical.  The  rose  was  sometimes  blended  with  the  lily, 
to  form  a  general  emblem  of  frail  mortality.  "This  sweet 
flower,"  said  Evelyn,  "borne  on  a  branch  set  with  thorns, 
and  accompanied  with  the  lily,  are  natural  hieroglyphics 
of  our  fugitive,  umbratile,  anxious,  and  transitory  life,, 
which,  making  so  fair  a  show  for  a  time,  is  not  yet  without 
its  thorns  and  crosses."  The  nature  and  color  of  the  flow- 
ers, and  of  the  ribbons  with  which  they  were  tied,  had  often 
a  particular  reference  to  the  qualities  or  story  of  the  deceased, 
or  were  expressive  of  the  feelings  of  the  mourner.  In  an  old 
poem,  entitled  "Corydon's  Doleful  Knell,"  a  lover  specifies 
the  decorations  he  intends  to  use : 


180  U/orl^B  of  U/asl?ii}<$tor>  Iruir?<j 

"A  garland  shall  be  framed 

By  Art  and  Nature's  skill, 
Of  sundry-colored  flowers, 
In  token  of  good  will. 

"And  sundry -colored  ribands 

On  it  I  will  bestow ; 
But  chiefly  blacke  and  yellowe 
With  her  to  grave  shall  go. 

"I'll  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers 

The  rarest  ever  seen ; 
And  with  my  tears  as  showers 
I'll  keep  them  fresh  and  green." 

The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at  the  grave  of 
a  virgin ;  her  chaplet  was  tied  with  white  ribbons,  in  token 
of  her  spotless  innocence;  though  sometimes  black  ribbons 
were  intermingled,  to  bespeak  the  grief  of  the  survivors. 
The  red  rose  was  occasionally  used,  in  remembrance  of  such 
as  had  been  remarkable  for  benevolence ;  but  roses  in  general 
were  appropriated  to  the  graves  of  lovers.  Evelyn  tells  us 
that  the  custom  was  not  altogether  extinct  in  his  time,  near 
his  dwelling  in  the  county  of  Surrey,  "where  the  maidens 
yearly  planted  and  decked  the  graves  of  their  defunct  sweet- 
hearts with  rose-bushes."  And  Camden  likewise  remarks, 
in  his  "Britannia" :  "Here  is  also  a  certain  custom,  observed 
time  out  of  mind,  of  planting  rose-trees  upon  the  graves, 
especially  by  the  young  men  and  maids  who  have  lost  their 
loves;  so  that  this  churchyard  is  now  full  of  them." 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  in  their  loves,  em- 
blems of  a  more  gloomy  character  were  used,  such  as  the 
yew  and  cypress;  and  if  flowers  were  strewn,  they  were  of 
the  most  melancholy  colors.  Thus,  in  poems  by  Thomas 
Stanley,  Esq.  (published  in  1651),  is  the  following  stanza: 

"Yet  strew 

Upon  my  dismal  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  yewe ; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth." 


181 

In  "The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  a  pathetic  little  air  is  intro- 
duced, illustrative  of  this  mode  of  decorating  the  funeral^  of 
females  who  have  been  disappointed  in  love : 

"Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew, 
Maidens  willow  branches  wear, 
Say  I  died  true. 

"My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm, 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 

Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth." 

The  natural  effect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is  to  refine  and 
elevate  the  mind;  and  we  have  a  proof  of  it  in  the  purity  of 
sentiment,  and  the  unaffected  elegance  of  thought,  which 
pervaded  the  whole  of  these  funeral  observances.  Thus,  it 
was  an  especial  precaution  that  none  but  sweet-scented  ever- 
greens and  flowers  should  be  employed.  The  intention  seems 
to  have  been  to  soften  the  horrors  of  the  tomb,  to  beguile  the 
mind  from  brooding  over  the  disgraces  of  perishing  mortal- 
ity, and  to  associate  the  memory  of  the  deceased  with  the 
most  delicate  and  beautiful  objects  in  Nature.  There  is  a 
dismal  process  going  on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust  can  return  to 
its  kindred  dust,  which  the  imagination  shrinks  from  con- 
templating; and  we  seek  still  to  think  of  the  form  we  have 
loved  with  those  refined  associations  which  it  awakened  when 
blooming  before  us  in  youth  and  beauty.  "Lay  her  i*  the 
earth,"  says  Laertes  of  his  virgin  sister, 

"And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring." 

J-  *:^ 

Herrick,  also,  in  his  "Dirge  of  Jephtha,"  pours  forth  a 
fragrant  flow  of  poetical  thought  and  image  which  in  a  man- 
ner embalms  the  dead  in  the  recollections  of  the  living. 

"Sleep  in  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 
And  make  this  place  all  Paradise: 
May  sweets  grow  here!  and  smoke  from  hence 
Fat  frankincense. 


182  U/or^s  of  U/asl?io<$tOQ 

Let  balme  and  cassia  send  their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 

"May  all  shie  maids  at  wonted  hours 
Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers! 
May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 
Male  incense  burn 
Upon  thine  altar!  then  return 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thy  urn." 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from  the  older  Brit- 
ish poets,  who  wrote  when  these  rites  were  more  prevalent, 
and  delighted  frequently  to  allude  to  them;  but  I  have 
already  quoted  more  than  is  necessary.  I  cannot,  however, 
refrain  from  giving  a  passage  from  Shakespeare,  even  though 
it  should  appear  trite,  which  illustrates  the  emblematical 
meaning  often  conveyed  in  these  floral  tributes,  and  at  the 
same  time  possesses  that  magic  of  language  and  appositeness 
of  imagery  for  which  he  stands  pre-eminent. 

"With  fairest  flowers, 

Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave ;  thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose ;  nor 
The  azured  harebell  like  thy  veins ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine ;  whom  not  to  slander, 
Outsweetened  not  thy  breath." 

There  is  certainly  something  more  affecting  in  these 
prompt  and  spontaneous  offerings  of  nature  than  in  the  most 
costly  monuments  of  art ;  the  hand  strews  the  flower  while 
the  heart  is  warm,  and  the  tear  falls  on  the  grave  as  affec- 
tion is  binding  the  osier  round  the  sod ;  but  pathos  expires 
under  the  slow  labor  of  the  chisel,  and  is  chilled  among  the 
cold  conceits  of  sculptured  marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  a  custom  so  truly  elegant 
and  touching  has  disappeared  from  general  use,  and  exists 
only  in  the  most  remote  and  insignificant  villages.  But  it 
seems  as  if  poetical  custom  always  shuns  the  walks  of  culti- 
vated society.  In  proportion  as  people  grow  polite  they  cease 


Jl?e  SKetol?-BooK  183 

to  be  poetical.  They  talk  of  poetry,  but  they  have  learned 
to  check  its  free  impulses,  to  distrust  its  sallying  emotions, 
and  to  supply  its  most  affecting  and  picturesque  usages  by 
studied  form  and  pompous  ceremonial.  Few  pageants  can 
be  more  stately  and  frigid  than  an  English  funeral  in  town. 
It  is  made  up  of  show  and  gloomy  parade :  mourning  car- 
riages, mourning  horses,  mourning  plumes,  and  hireling 
mourners,  who  make  a  mockery  of  grief.  "There  is  a  grave 
digged,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "and  a  solemn  mourning,  and 
a  great  talk  in  the  neighborhood,  and  when  the  daies  are  fin- 
ished, they  shall  be,  and  they  shall  be  remembered  no  more." 
The  associate  in  the  gay  and  crowded  city  is  soon  forgotten; 
the  hurrying  succession  of  new  intimates  and  new  pleasures 
effaces  him  from  our  minds,  and  the  very  scenes  and  circles 
in  which  he  moved  are  incessantly  fluctuating.  But  funerals 
in  the  country  are  solemnly  impressive.  The  stroke  of  death 
makes  a  wider  space  in  the  village  circle,  and  is  an  awful 
event  in  the  tranquil  uniformity  of  rural  life.  The  passing 
bell  tolls  its  knell  in  every  ear ;  it  steals  with  its  pervading 
melancholy  over  hill  and  vale,  and  saddens  all  the  landscape. 
The  fixed  and  unchanging  features  of  the  country,  also, 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  friend  with  whom  we  once 
enjoyed  them ;  who  was  the  companion  of  our  most  retired 
walks,  and  gave  animation  to  every  lonely  scene.  His  idea 
is  associated  with  every  charm  of  Nature :  we  hear  his  voice 
in  the  echo  which  he  once  delighted  to  awaken ;  his  spirit 
haunts  the  grove  which  he  once  frequented ;  we  think  of  him 
in  the  wild  upland  solitude,  or  amid  the  pensive  beauty  of 
the  valley.  In  the  freshness  of  joyous  morning,  we  remem- 
ber his  beaming  smiles  and  bounding  gayety;  and  when, 
sober  evening  returns,  with  its  gathering  shadows  and  sub- 
duing quiet,  we  call  to  mind  many  a  twilight  hour  of  gentle 
talk  and  sweet-souled  melancholy. 

"Each  lonely  place  shall  him  restore, 

For  him  the  tear  be  duly  shed, 
Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 
And  mourn'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead." 


184  U/orl^s  of  U/asl?ip$toi)  Irvip<? 

Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory  of  the  de- 
ceased in  the  country  is,  that  the  grave  is  more  immediately 
in  sight  of  the  survivors.  They  pass  it  on  their  way  to 
prayer;  it  meets  their  eyes  when  their  hearts  are  softened  by 
the  exercise  of  devotion ;  they  linger  about  it  on  the  Sabbath, 
when  the  mind  is  disengaged  from  worldly  cares,  and  most 
disposed  to  turn  aside  from  present  pleasures  and  present 
loves,  and  to  sit  down  among  the  solemn  mementos  of  the 
past.  In  North  "Wales,  the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray  over 
the  graves  of  their  deceased  friends  for  several  Sundays  after 
the  interment;  and  where  the  tender  rite  of  strewing  and 
planting  flowers  is  still  practiced,  it  is  always  renewed  on 
Easter,  Whitsuntide,  and  other  festivals,  when  the  season 
brings  the  companion  of  former  festivity  more  vividly  to 
mind.  It  is  also  invariably  performed  by  the  nearest  relatives 
and  friends;  no  menials  nor  hirelings  are  employed,  and  if 
a  neighbor  yields  assistance,  it  would  be  deemed  an  insult  to 
offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  beautiful  rural  custom,  because, 
as  it  is  one  of  the  last,  so  is  it  one  of  the  holiest  offices  of 
love.  The  grave  is  the  ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is  there 
that  the  divine  passion  of  the  soul  manifests  its  superiority  to 
the  instinctive  impulse  of  mere  animal  attachment.  The  lat- 
ter must  be  continually  refreshed  and  kept  alive  by  the  pres- 
ence of  its  object ;  but  the  love  that  is  seated  in  the  soul  can 
live  on  long  remembrance.  The  mere  inclinations  of  sense 
languish  and  decline  with  the  charms  which  excited  them, 
and  turn  with  shuddering  and  disgust  from  the  dismal  pre- 
cincts of  the  tomb ;  but  it  is  thence  that  truly  spiritual  affec- 
tion rises  purified  from  every  sensual  desire,  and  returns, 
like  a  holy  flame,  to  illumine  and  sanctify  the  heart  of  the 
survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which 
we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to 
heal — every  other  affliction  to  forget;  but  this  wound  we 
consider  it  a  duty  to  keep  open — this  affliction  we  cherish 
and  brood  over  in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother  who  would 


185 

•willingly  forget  the  infant  that  perished  like  a  blossom  from 
her  arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a  pang?  Where  is  the 
child  that  would  willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of  parents, 
though  to  remember  be  but  to  lament?  Who,  even  in  the 
hour  of  agony,  would  forget  the  friend  over  whom  he 
mourns?  Who,  even  when  the  tomb  is  closing  upon  the 
remains  of  her  he  most  loved ;  when  he  feels  his  heart,  as 
it  were,  crushed  in  the  closing  of  its  portal ;  would  accept  of 
consolation  that  must  be  bought  by  forgetfulness? — No,  the 
love  which  survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest  attributes 
of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has  likewise  its  delights; 
and  when  the  overwhelming  burst  of  grief  is  calmed  into  the 
gentle  tear  of  recollection — when  the  sudden  anguish  and 
the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present  ruins  of  all  that  we 
most  loved  is  softened  away  into  pensive  meditation  on  all 
that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness — who  would  root  out 
such  a  sorrow  from  the  heart?  Though  it  may  sometimes 
throw  a  passing  cloud  over  the  bright  hour  of  gayety,  or 
spread  a  deeper  sadness  over  the  hour  of  gloom;  yet  who 
would  exchange  it  even  for  the  song  of  pleasure,  or  the  burst 
of  revelry?  No,  there  is  a  voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than 
song.  There  is  a  remembrance  of  the  dead,  to  which  we 
turn  even  from  the  charms  of  the  living.  Oh,  the  grave !; — 
the  grave! — It  buries  every  error — covers  every  defect — ex- 
tinguishes every  resentment!  From  its  peaceful  bosom 
spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  recollections.  Who 
can  look  down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an  enemy  and  not  feel 
a  compunctious  throb  that  he  should  ever  have  warred  with 
the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  lies  mouldering  before  him? 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  love — what  a  place  for  medita-  , 
tion !  There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  the  whole 
history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the  thousand  endear- 
ments lavished  upon  us  almost  unheeded  in  the  daily  inter- 
course of  intimacy ; — there  it  is  that  we  dwell  upon  the  ten- 
derness, the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of  the  parting  scene. 
The  bed  of  death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs— its  noiseless 
attendance — its  mute,  watchful  assiduities.  The  last  testi- 


186  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi) 

monies  of  expiring  love!  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling — 
oh!  how  thrilling! — pressure  of  the  hand.  The  last  fond 
look  of  the  glazing  eye,  turning  upon  us  even  from  the 
threshold  of  existence.  The  faint,  faltering  accents,  strug- 
gling in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of  affection ! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  meditate !  There 
settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit 
unrequited,  every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  de- 
parted being,  who  can  never — never — never  return  to  be 
soothed  by  thy  contrition! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to  the 
soul  or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  par- 
ent— if  thou  art  a  husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond 
bosom  that  ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  thy  arms  to 
doubt  one  moment  of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth — if  thou  art 
a  friend,  and  hast  ever  wronged,  in  thought,  or  word,  or 
deed,  the  spirit  that  generously  confided  in  thee— if  thou  art 
a  lover,  and  hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true 
heart  which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy  feet ;  then  be 
sure  that  every  unkind  look,  every  ungracious  word,  every 
ungentle  action,  will  come  thronging  back  upon  thy  memory, 
and  knocking  dolefully  at  thy  soul — then  be  sure  that  thou 
wilt  lie  down  sorrowing  and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and  ut- 
ter the  unheard  groan,  and  pour  the  unavailing  tear— more 
deep,  more  bitter,  because  unheard  and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beauties 
of  nature  about  the  grave ;  console  thy  broken  spirit,  if  thou 
canst,  with  these  tender,  yet  futile  tributes  of  regret;— but 
take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of  this  thy  contrite  affliction 
over  the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more  faithful  and  aiTection- 
|  ate  in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


In  writing  the  preceding  article,  it  was  not  intended  to 
give  a  full  detail  of  the  funeral  customs  of  the  English  peas- 
antry, but  merely  to  furnish  a  few  hints  and  quotations  illus- 


T»?e  SKetoI?-BooK  187 


trative  of  particular  rites,  to  be  appended,  by  way  of  note, 
to  another  paper,  which  has  been  withheld.  The  article 
swelled  insensibly  into  its  present  form,  and  this  is  men- 
tioned as  an  apology  for  so  brief  and  casual  a  notice  of  these 
usages,  after  they  have  been  amply  and  learnedly  investi- 
gated in  other  works. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  am  well  aware  that  this  cus- 
tom of  adorning  graves  with  flowers  prevails  in  other  coun- 
tries besides  England.  Indeed,  in  some  it  is  much  more 
general,  and  is  observed  even  by  the  rich  and  fashionable  ; 
but  it  is  then  apt  to  lose  its  simplicity,  and  to  degenerate  into 
affectation.  Bright,  in  his  travels  in  Lower  Hungary,  tells 
of  monuments  of  marble,  and  recesses  formed  for  retirement, 
with  seats  placed  among  bowers  of  green-house  plants  ;  and 
that  the  graves  generally  are  covered  with  the  gayest  flow- 
ers of  the  season.  He  gives  a  casual  picture  of  final  piety, 
which  I  cannot  but  describe,  for  I  trust  it  is  as  useful  as  it  is 
delightful  to  illustrate  the  amiable  virtues  of  the  sex.  "When 
I  was  at  Berlin,"  says  he,  "I  followed  the  celebrated  Iffland 
to  the  grave.  Mingled  with  some  pomp,  you  might  trace 
much  real  feeling.  In  the  midst  of  the  ceremony  my  atten- 
tion was  attracted  by  a  young  woman  who  stood  on  a  mound 
of  earth,  newly  covered  with  turf,  which  she  anxiously  pro- 
tected from  the  feet  of  the  passing  crowd.  It  was  the  tomb 
of  her  parent  ;  and  the  figure  of  this  affectionate  daughter 
presented  a  monument  more  striking  than  the  most  costly 
work  of  art." 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  decoration 
that  I  once  met  with  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland. 
It  was  at  the  village  of  Gersau,  which  stands  on  the  borders 
of  the  lake  of  Luzerne,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Rigi.  It  was 
once  the  capital  of  a  miniature  republic,  shut  up  between  the 
Alps  and  the  lake,  and  accessible  on  the  land  side  only  by 
footpaths.  The  whole  force  of  the  republic  did  not  exceed 
six  hundred  fighting  men  ;  and  a  few  miles  of  circumference, 
scooped  out,  "3s  it  were,  from  the  bosom  of  the  mountains, 
comprised  its  territory.  The  village  of  Qersau  seemed  sepa- 


188  UYorKs  of  U7asl?ii)<ftoi) 

rated  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  retained  the  golden 
simplicity  of  a  purer  age.  It  had  a  small  church,  with  a 
burying-ground  adjoining.  At  the  heads  of  the  graves  were 
placed  crosses  of  wood  or  iron.  On  some  were  affixed  minia- 
tures, rudely  executed,  but  evidently  attempts  at  likenesses 
of  the  deceased.  On  the  crosses  were  hung  chaplets  of  flow- 
ers, some  withering,  others  fresh,  as  if  occasionally  renewed. 
I  paused  with  interest  at  this  scene ;  I  felt  that  I  was  at  the 
source  of  poetical  description,  for  these  were  the  beautiful 
but  unaffected  offerings  of  the  heart,  which  poets  are  fain  to 
record.  In  a  gayer  and  more  populous  place  I  should  have 
suspected  them  to  have  been  suggested  by  factitious  senti- 
ment, derived  from  books;  but  the  good  people  of  Gersau 
knew  little  of  books ;  there  was  not  a  novel  nor  a  love  poem 
in  the  village;  and  I  question  whether  any  peasant  of  the 
place  dreamed,  while  he  was  twining  a  fresh  chaplet  for  the 
grave  of  his  mistress,  that  he  was  fulfilling  one  of  the  most 
fanciful  rites  of  poetical  devotion,  and  that  he  was  practically 
a  poet. 


THE    INN    KITCHEN 

"Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?"— Falstaff 

DURING  a  journey  that  I  once  made  through  the  Nether- 
lands, I  had  arrived  one  evening  at  the  Pomme  d'Or,  the 
principal  inn  of  a  small  Flemish  village.  It  was  after  the 
hour  of  the  table  d'hote,  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  make  a 
solitary  supper  from  the  relics  of  its  ampler  board.  The 
weather  was  chilly ;  I  was  seated  alone  in  one  end  of  a  great 
gloomy  dining-room,  and  my  repast  being  over,  I  had  the 
prospect  before  me  of  a  long  dull  evening,  without  any  visi- 
ble means  of  enlivening  it.  I  summoned  mine  host,  and  re- 
quested something  to  read ;  he  brought  me  the  whole  literary 
stock  of  his  household,  a  Dutch  family  Bible,  an  almanac  in 
the  same  language,  and  a  number  of  old  Paris"  newspapers. 
As  I  sat  dozing  over  one  of  the  latter,  reading  old  news  and 


189 

stale  criticisms,  my  ear  was  now  and  then  struck  with  bursts 
of  laughter  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  kitchen. 
Every  one  that  has  traveled  on  the  Continent  must  know 
how  favorite  a  resort  the  kitchen  of  a  country  inn  is  to  the 
middle  and  inferior  order  of  travelers ;  particularly  in  that 
equivocal  kind  of  weather  when  a  fire  becomes  agreeable  to- 
ward evening.  I  threw  aside  the  newspaper,  and  explored 
my  way  to  the  kitchen,  to  take  a  peep  at  the  group  that  ap- 
peared to  be  so  merry.  It  was  composed  partly  of  travelers 
who  had  arrived  some  hours  before  in  a  diligence,  and  partly 
of  the  usual  attendants  and  hangers-on  of  inns.  They  were 
seated  round  a  great  burnished  stove,  that  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  an  altar  at  which  they  were  worshiping.  It  was 
covered  with  various  kitchen  vessels  of  resplendent  bright- 
ness ;  among  which  steamed  and  hissed  a  huge  copper  tea- 
kettle. A  large  lamp  threw  a  strong  mass  of  light  upon  the 
group,  bringing  out  many  odd  features  in  strong  relief.  Its 
yellow  rays  partially  illumined  the  spacious  kitchen,  dying 
duskily  away  into  remote  corners;  except  where  they  settled 
in  mellow  radiance  on  the  broad  side  of  a  flitch  of  bacon,  or 
were  reflected  back  from  well-scoured  utensils  that  gleamed 
from  the  midst  of  obscurity.  A  strapping  Flemish  lass,  with 
long  golden  pendents  in  her  ears,  and  a  necklace  with  a 
golden  heart  suspended  to  it,  was  the  presiding  priestess  of 
the  temple. 

Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with  pipes,  and 
most  of  them  with  some  kind  of  evening  potation.  I  found 
their  mirth  was  occasioned  by  anecdotes  which  a  little 
swarthy  Frenchman,  with  a  dry  weazen  face  and  large 
whiskers,  was  giving  of  his  love  adventures;  at  the  end  of 
each  of  which  there  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  honest  uncere- 
monious laughter,  in  which  a  man  indulges  in  that  temple  of 
true  liberty,  an  inn. 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a  tedious 
blustering  evening,  I  took  my  seat  near  the  stove,  and  list- 
ened to  a  variety  of  traveler's  tales,  some  very  extravagant, 
and  most  very  dull.  All  of  them,  however,  have  faded  from 


190  U/orks  of  U/asl?ir><Jtor> 

my  treacherous  memory,  except  one,  which  I  will  endeavor 
to  relate.  I  fear,  however,  it  derived  its  chief  zest  from  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  told,  and  the  peculiar  air  and  ap- 
pearance of  the  narrator.  He  was  a  corpulent  old  Swiss, 
who  had  the  look  of  a  veteran  traveler.  He  was  dressed  in 
a  tarnished  green  traveling- jacket,  with  a  broad  belt  round 
his  waist,  and  a  pair  of  overalls  with  buttons  from  the  hips 
to  the  ankles.  He  was  of  a  full,  rubicund  countenance,  with 
a  double  chin,  aquiline  nose,  and  a  pleasant  twinkling  eye. 
His  hair  was  light,  and  curled  from  under  an  old  green  vel- 
vet traveling-cap,  stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  was 
interrupted  more  than  once  by  the  arrival  of  guests,  or  the 
remarks  of  his  auditors;  and  paused,  now  and  then,  to  re- 
plenish his  pipe ;  at  which  times  he  had  generally  a  roguish 
leer,  and  a  sly  joke,  for  the  buxom  kitchen  maid. 

I  wish  my  reader  could  imagine  the  old  fellow  lolling  in 
a  huge  armchair,  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  holding  a  curi- 
ously twisted  tobacco-pipe,  formed  of  genuine  ecume  de  mer, 
decorated  with  silver  chain  and  silken  tassel — his  head  cocked 
on  one  side,  and  a  whimsical  cut  of  the  eye  occasionally,  as 
he  related  the  following  story : 


THE    SPECTER    BRIDEGROOM 

A  TRAVELER'S  TALE* 

"He  that  Slipper  for  is  dight, 
He  lyes  full  cold,  I  trow,  this  nightl 
Yestreen  to  chamber  I  him  led, 
This  night  Gray -steel  has  made  his  bed!" 

— SIR  EGEB,  SIR  GRAHAME,  and  SIR  GRAY-STEEL 

ON  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Odenwald,  a 
wild  and  romantic  tract  of  Upper  Germany  that  lies  not  far 

*The  erudite  reader,  well  versed  in  good-for-nothing  lore,  will 
perceive  that  the  above  Tale  must  have  been  suggested  to  the  old  Swiss 
by  a  little  French  anecdote,  of  a  circumstance  said  to  have  taken  place 
at  Paris. 


191 

from  the  confluence  of  the  Maine  and  the  Rhine,  there  stood, 
many,  many  years  since,  the  Castle  of 'the  Baron  Von  Land- 
short.  Jt  is  now  quite  fallen  to  decay,  and  almost  buried 
among  beech  trees  and  dark  firs ;  above  which,  however,  its 
old  watch-tower  may  still  be  seen  struggling,  like  the  former 
possessor  I  have  mentioned,  to  carry  a  high  head,  and  look 
down  upon  a  neighboring  country. 

The  Baron  was  a  dry  branch  of  the  great  family  of  Kat- 
zenellenbogen,*  and  inherited  the  relics  of  the  property  and 
all  the  pride  of  his  ancestors.  Though  the  warlike  disposi- 
tion of  his  predecessors  had  much  impaired  the  family  pos- 
sessions, yet  the  Baron  still  endeavored  to  keep  up  some  show 
of  former  state.  The  times  were  peaceable,  and  the  German 
nobles,  in  general,  had  abandoned  their  inconvenient  old  cas- 
tles, perched  like  eagles'  nests  among  the  mountains,  and 
had  built  more  convenient  residences  in  the  valleys ;  still  the 
Baron  remained  proudly  drawn  up  in  his  little  fortress,  cher- 
ishing with  hereditary  inveteracy  all  the  old  family  feuds ; 
so  that  he  was  on  ill  terms  with  some  of  his  nearest  neigh- 
bors, on  account  of  disputes  that  had  happened  between  their 
great-great-grandfathers. 

The  Baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter ;  but  Nature, 
when  she  grants  but  one  child,  always  compensates  by  mak- 
ing it  a  prodigy ;  and  so  it  was  with  the  daughter  of  the 
Baron.  All  the  nurses,  gossips,  and  country  cousins,  as- 
sured her  father  that  she  had  not  her  equal  for  beauty  in  all 
Germany;  and  who  should  know  better  than  they?  She 
had,  moreover,  been  brought  up  with  great  care,  under  the 
superintendence  of  two.  maiden  aunts,  who  had  spent  some 
years  of  their  early  life  at  one  of  the  little  German  courts, 
and  were  skilled  in  all  the  branches  of  knowledge  necessary 
to  the  education  of  a  fine  lady.  Under  their  instructions, 
she  became  a  miracle  of  accomplishments.  By  the  tune  she 
was  eighteen  she  could  embroider  to  admiration,  and  had 

*T.e.,  CAT'S  ELBOW— the  name  of  a  family  of  those  parts,  very 
powerful  in  former  times.  The  appellation,  we  are  told,  was  given  in 
compliment  to  a  peerless  dame  of  the  family,  celebrated  for  a  fine  arm. 


192  U/orks  of  U/asl?ii?$toi)  Irvii)$ 

worked  whole  histories  of  the  saints  in  tapestry  with  such 
strength  of  expression  in  their  countenances  that  they  looked 
like  so  many  souls  in  purgatory.  She  could  read  without 
great  difficulty,  and  had  spelled  her  way  through  several 
church  legends,  and  almost  all  the  chivalric  wonders  of  the 
Heldenbuch.  She  had  even  made  considerable  proficiency 
in  writing,  could  sign  her  own  name  without  missing  a  let- 
ter, and  so  legibly  that  her  aunts  could  read  it  without  spec- 
tacles. She  excelled  in  making  little  good-for-nothing  lady- 
like knickknacks  of  all  kinds ;  was  versed  in  the  most  abstruse 
dancing  of  the  day;  played  a  number  of  airs  on  the  harp  and 
guitar;  and  knew  all  the  tender  ballads  of  the  Minnie-lieders 
by  heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  flirts  and  coquettes  in 
their  younger  days,  were  admirably  calculated  to  be  vigilant 
guardians  and  strict  censors  of  the  conduct  of  their  niece ;  for 
there  is  no  duenna  so  rigidly  prudent,  and  inexorably  decor- 
ous, as  a  superannuated  coquette.  She  was  rarely  suffered 
out  of  their  sight ;  never  went  beyond  the  domains  of  the 
castle,  unless  well  attended,  or,  rather,  well  watched;  had 
continual  lectures  read  to  her  about  strict  decorum  and  im- 
plicit obedience ;  and,  as  to  the  men— pah !  she  was  taught 
to  hold  them  at  such  distance  and  distrust  that,  unless  prop- 
erly authorized,  she  would  not  have  cast  a  glance  upon  the 
handsomest  cavalier  in  the  world — no,  not  if  he  were  even 
dying  at  her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  this  system  were  wonderfully  appar- 
ent. The  young  lady  was  a  pattern  of  docility  and  correct- 
ness. While  others  were  wasting  their  sweetness  in  the 
glare  of  the  world,  and  liable  to  be  plucked  and  thrown 
aside  by  every  hand,  she  was  coyly  blooming  into  fresh  and 
lovely  womanhood  under  the  protection  of  those  immaculate 
spinsters,  like  a  rose-bud  blushing  forth  among  guardian 
thorns.  Her  aunts  looked  upon  her  with  pride  and  exulta- 
tion, and  vaunted  that  though  all  the  other  young  ladies  in 
the  world  might,  go  astray,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing  of 
the  kind  could  happen  to  the  heiress  of  Katzenellenbogen. 


193 

But  however  scantily  the  Baron  Von  Landshort  might  be 
provided,  with  children,  his  household  was  by  no  means  a 
small  one,  for  Providence  had  enriched  him  with  abundance 
of  poor  relations.  They,  one  and  all,  possessed  the  affection- 
ate disposition  common  to  humble  relatives;  were  wonder- 
fully attached  to  the  Baron,  and  took  every  possible  occasion 
to  come  in  swarms  and  enliven  the  castle.  All  family  festi- 
vals were  commemorated  by  these  good  people  at  the  Baron's 
expense ;  and  when  they  were  filled  with  good  cheer,  they 
would  declare  that  there  was  nothing  on  earth  so  delightful 
as  these  family  meetings,  these  jubilees  of  the  heart. 

The  Baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  large  soul,  and  it 
swelled  with  satisfaction  at  the  consciousness  of  being  the 
greatest  man  in  the  little  world  about  him.  He  loved  to  tell 
long  stories  about  the  stark  old  warriors  whose  portraits 
looked  grimly  down  from  the  walls  around,  and  he  found 
no  listeners  ecfiial  to  those  who  fed  at  his  expense.  He  was 
much  given  to  the  marvelous,  and  a  firm  believer  in  all  those 
supernatural  tales  with  which  every  mountain  and  valley  hi 
Germany  abounds.  The  faith  of  his  guests  even  exceeded 
his  own :  they  listened  to  every  tale  of  wonder  with  open 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  never  failed  to  be  astonished,  even 
though  repeated  for  the  hundredth  time.  Thus  lived  the 
Baron  Von  Landshort,  the  oracle  of  his  table,  the  absolute 
monarch  of  his  little  territory,  and  happy,  above  all  things, 
in  the  persuasion  that  he  was  the  wisest  man  of  the  age. 

At  the  time  of  which  my  story  treats  there  was  a  great 
family-gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an  affair  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance :  it  was  to  receive  the  destined  bridegroom  of  the 
Baron's  daughter."  A  negotiation  had  been  carried  on  be- 
tween the  father  and  an  old  nobleman  of  Bavaria,  to  unite' 
the  dignity  of  their  houses  by  the  marriage  of  their  children. 
The  preliminaries  had  been  conducted  with  proper  punctilio. 
The  young  people  were  betrothed  without  seeing  each  other, 
and  the  time  was  appointed  for  the  marriage  ceremony.  The 
young  Count  Von  Altenburg  had  been  recalled  from  the 
army  for  the  purpose,  and  was  actually  on  his  way  to  the 
*  *  *9  VOL.  I. 


of 

Baron's  to  receive  his  bride.  Missives  had  even  been  re- 
ceived from  him,  from  Wurtzburg,  where  he  was  acciden- 
tally detained,  mentioning  the  day  and  hour  when  he  might 
be  expected  to  arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  tumult  of  preparation  to  give  him  a 
suitable  welcome.  The  fair  bride  had  been  decked  out  with 
uncommon  care.  The  two  aunts  had  superintended  her 
toilet,  and  quarreled  the  whole  morning  about  every  article 
of  her  dress.  The  young  lady  had  taken  advantage  of  their 
contest  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  taste ;  and  fortunately 
it  was  a  good  one.  She  looked  as  lovely  as  youthful  bride- 
groom could  desire ;  and  the  nutter  of  expectation  heightened 
the  luster  of  her  charms. 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck,  the  gentle 
heaving  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now  and  then  lost  hi  reverie, 
all  betrayed  the  soft  tumult  that  was  going  on  in  her  little 
heart.  The  aunts  were  continually  hovering  around  her; 
for  maiden  aunts  are  apt  to  take  great  interest  in  affairs  of 
this  nature :  they  were  giving  her  a  world  of  staid  counsel 
how  to  deport  herself,  what  to  say,  and  in  what  manner  to 
receive  the  expected  lover. 

The  Baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations.  He  had, 
in  truth,  nothing  exactly  to  do;  but  he  was  naturally  a  fum- 
ing, bustling  little  man,  and  could  not  remain  passive  when 
all  the  world  was  in  a  hurry.  He  worried  from  top  to  bot- 
tom of  the  castle,  with  an  air  of  infinite  anxiety ;  he  contin- 
ually called  the  servants  from  their  work  to  exhort  them  to 
be  diligent,  and  buzzed  about  every  hall  and  chamber,  as  idly 
restless  and  importunate  as  a  blue-bottle  fly  of  a  warm  sum- 
mer's day. 

In  the  meantime,  the  fatted  calf  had  been  killed ;  the  for- 
ests had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  huntsmen ;  the  kitchen 
was  crowded  with  good  cheer;  the  cellars  had  yielded  up 
whole  oceans  of  Rhein-wein  and  Ferne-wein,  and  even  the 
great  Heidelberg  Tun  had  been  laid  under  contribution. 
Everything  was  ready  to  receive  the  distinguished  guest 
with  Saus  und  Braus  hi  the  true  spirit  of  German  hospital- 


Jl?e  Sketeb-BooK  195 

ity— but  the  guest  delayed  to  make  his  appearance.  Hour 
rolled  after  hour. ,  The  sun  that  had  poured  his  downward 
rays  upon  the  rich  forests  of  the  Odenwald,  now  just  gleamed 
along  the  summits  of  the  mountains.  The  Baron  mounted 
the  highest  tower,  and  strained  his  eyes  in  hopes  of  catching 
a  distant  sight  of  the  Count  and  his  attendants.  Once  he 
thought  he  beheld  them;  the  sound  of  horns  came  floating 
from  the  valley,  prolonged  by  the  mountain  echoes :  a  number 
of  horsemen  were  seen  far  below,  slowly  advancing  along 
the  road;  but  when  they  had  nearly  reached  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  they  suddenly  struck  off  in  a  different  direction. 
The  last  ray  of  sunshine  departed — the  bats  began  to  flit  by 
in  the  twilight — the  road  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer  to  the 
view ;  and  nothing  appeared  stirring  in  it  but  now  and  then 
a  peasant  lagging  homeward  from  his  labor. 

"While  the  old  castle  of  Landshort  was  in  this  state  of  per- 
plexity, a  very  interesting  scene  was  transacting  in  a  different 
part  of  the  Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  was  tranquilly  pursu- 
ing his  route  in  that  sober  jog-trot  way  in  which  a  man 
travels  toward  matrimony  when  his  friends  have  taken  all 
the  trouble  and  uncertainty  of  courtship  off  his  hands,  and  a 
bride  is  waiting  for  him,  as  certainly  as  a  dinner,  at  the  end 
of  his  journey.  He  had  encountered  at  Wurtzburg  a  youth- 
ful companion  in  arms,  with  whom  he  had  seen  some  service 
on  the  frontiers;  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust,  one  of  the  stout- 
est hands  and  worthiest  hearts  of  German  chivalry,  who  was 
now  returning  from  the  army.  His  father's  castle  was  not 
far  distant  from  the  old  fortress  of  Landshort,  although  a 
hereditary  feud  rendered  the  families  hostile  and  strangers 
to  each  others. 

In  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition,  the  young 
friends  related  all  their  past  adventures  and  fortunes,  and 
the  Count  gave  the  whole  history  of  his  intended  nuptials 
with  a  young  lady  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whose 
charms  he  had  received  the  most  enrapturing  descriptions. 

As  the  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  the  same  direction,  they 


196  U/orKs  of  U/a8bii>$top  Iruir>$ 


agreed  to  perform  the  rest  of  their  journey  together;  and, 
that  they  might  do  it  more  leisurely,  set  off  from  Wurtzburg 
at  an  early  hour,  the  Count  having  given  directions  for  his 
retinue  to  follow  and  overtake  him. 

They  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollections  of  their 
military  scenes  and  adventures;  but  the  Count  was  apt  to  be 
a  little  tedious,  now  and  then,  about  the  reputed  charms  of 
his  bride,  and  the  felicity  that  awaited  him. 

In  this  way  they  had  entered  among  the  mountains  of 
the  Odenwald,  and  were  traversing  one  of  its  most  lonely 
and  thickly  wooded  passes.  It  is  well  known  that  the 
forests  of  Germany  have  always  been  as  much  infested  with 
robbers  as  its  castles  by  specters  ;  and,  at  this  time,  the  for- 
mer were  particularly  numerous,  from  the  hordes  of  dis- 
banded soldiers  wandering  about  the  country.  It  will  not 
appear  extraordinary,  therefore,  that  the  cavaliers  were  at- 
tacked by  a  gang  of  these  stragglers  in  the  midst  of  the  for- 
est. They  defended  themselves  with  bravery,  but  were 
nearly  overpowered  when  the  Count's  retinue  arrived  to 
their  assistance.  At  sight  of  them  the  robbers  fled,  but  not 
until  the  Count  had  received  a  mortal  wound.  He  was 
slowly  and  carefully  conveyed  back  to  the  city  of  "Wurtz- 
burg, and  a  friar  summoned  from  a  neighboring  convent, 
who  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  administering  to  both  soul 
and  body.  But  half  of  his  skill  was  superfluous;  the  mo- 
ments of  the  unfortunate  Count  were  numbered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend  to  repair 
instantly  to  the  castle  of  Landshort,  and  explain  the  fatal 
cause  of  his  not  keeping  his  appointment  with  his  bride. 
Though  not  the  most  ardent  of  lovers,  he  was  one  of  the 
most  punctilious  of  men,  and  appeared  earnestly  solicitous 
that  this  mission  should  be  speedily  and  courteously  executed. 
"Unless  this  is  done,"  said  he,  "I  shall  not  sleep  quietly  in 
my  grave!"  He  repeated  these  last  words  with  peculiar 
solemnity.  A  request,  at  a  moment  so  impressive,  admitted 
no  hesitation.  Starkenfaust  endeavored  to  soothe  him  to 
calmness  ;  promised  faithfully  to  execute  his  wish,  and  gave 


JI?e  SKetol?-BooK  197 

him  his  hand  in  solemn  pledge.  The  dying  man  pressed  it 
in  acknowledgment,  but  soon  lapsed  into  delirium — raved 
about  his  bride— his  engagements — his  plighted  word;  or- 
dered his  horse,  that  he  might  ride  to  the  castle  of  Land- 
short,  and  expired  in  the  fancied  act  of  vaulting  into  the 
saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigh  and  a  soldier's  tear  on  the 
untimely  fate  of  his  comrade;  and  then  pondered  on  the 
awkward  mission  he  had  undertaken.  His  heart  was  heavy, 
and  his  head  perplexed ;  for  he  was  to  present  himself  an  un- 
bidden guest  among  hostile  people,  and  to  damp  their  festiv- 
ity with  tidings  fatal  to  their  hopes.  Still  there  were  certain 
whisperings  of  curiosity  in  his  bosom  to  see  this  far-famed 
beauty  of  Katzenellenbogen  so  cautiously  shut  up  from  the 
world ;  for  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  the  sex,  and  there 
was  a  dash  of  eccentricity  and  enterprise  in  his  character 
that  made  him  fond  of  all  singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departure,  he  made  all  due  arrangements 
with  the  holy  fraternity  of  the  convent  for  the  funeral  so- 
lemnities of  his  friend,  who  was  to  be  buried  in  the  cathedral 
of  "Wurtzburg,  near  some  of  his  illustrious  relatives;  and  the 
mourning  retinue  of  the  Count  took  charge  of  his  remains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to  the  ancient 
family  of  Katzenellenbogen,  who  were  impatient  for  their 
guest,  and  still  more  for  their  dinner;  and  to  the  worthy  lit- 
tle Baron,  whom  we  left  airing  himself  on  the  watch-tower. 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arrived.  The  Baron 
descended  from  the  tower  in  despair.  The  banquet,  which 
had  been  delayed  from  hour  to  hour,  could  no  longer  be  post- 
poned. The  meats  were  already  overdone,  the  cook  in  an 
agony,  and  the  whole  household  had  the  look  of  a  garrison 
that  had  been  reduced  by  famine.  The  Baron  was  obliged 
reluctantly  to  give  orders  for  the  feast  without  the  presence 
of  the  guest.  All  were  seated  at  table,  and  just  on  the  point 
of  commencing,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn  from  without  the 
gate  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of  a  stranger.  Another 
long  blast  filled  the  old  courts  of  the  castle  with  its  echoes, 


198  U/orKs  of  U/asl?io<$toi7  Irvfi)<j 

and  was  answered  by  the  warder  from  the  walls.  The  Baron 
hastened  to  receive  his  future  son-in-law. 

The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down,  and  the  stranger  was 
before  the  gate.  He  was  a  tall  gallant  cavalier,  mounted  on 
a  black  steed.  His  countenance  was  pale,  but  he  had  a 
beaming,  romantic  eye,  and  an  ah*  of  stately  melancholy. 
The  Baron  was  a  little  mortified  that  he  should  have  come 
in  this  simple,  solitary  style.  His  dignity  for  a  moment  was 
ruffled,  and  he  felt  disposed  to  consider  it  a  want  of  proper 
respect  for  the  important  occasion,  and  the  important  family 
with  which  he  was  to  be  connected.  He  pacified  himself, 
however,  with  the  conclusion  that  it  must  have  been  youth- 
ful impatience  which  had  induced  him  thus  to  spur  on  sooner 
than  his  attendants. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  stranger,  "to  break  in  upon  you 
thus  unseasonably — " 

Here  the  Baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world  of  compli- 
ments and  greetings;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  prided  him- 
self upon  his  courtesy  and  his  eloquence.  The  stranger  at- 
tempted, once  or  twice,  to  stem  the  torrent  of  words,  but  in 
vain ;  so  he  bowed  his  head  and  suffered  it  to  flow  on.  By 
the  time  the  Baron  had  come  to  a  pause  they  had  reached 
the  inner  court  of  the  castle ;  and  the  stranger  was  again 
about  to  speak,  when  he  was  once  more  interrupted  by  the 
appearance  of  the  female  part  of  the  family,  leading  forth 
the  shrinking  and  blushing  bride.  He  gazed  on  her  for  a 
moment  as  one  entranced;  it  seemed  as  if  his  whole  soul 
beamed  forth  in  the  gaze,  and  rested  upon  that  lovely  form. 
One  of  the  maiden  aunts  whispered  something  in  her  ear; 
she  made  an  effort  to  speak ;  her  moist  blue  eye  was  timidly 
raised,  gave  a  shy  glance  of  inquiry  on  the  stranger,  and 
was  cast  again  to  the  ground.  The  words  died  away;  but 
there  was  a  sweet  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  and  a  soft 
dimpling  of  the  cheek,  that  showed  her  glance  had  not  been 
unsatisfactory.  It  was  impossible  for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age 
of  eighteen,  highly  predisposed  for  love  and  matrimony,  not 
to  be  pleased  with  so  gallant  a  cavalier. 


Tbe  SKetel?-BooK  199 

The  late  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived  left  no  time 
for  parley.  The  Baron  was  peremptory,  and  deferred  all 
particular  conversation  until  the  morning,  and  led  the  way 
to  the  untasted  banquet. 

It  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle.  Around 
the  walls  hung  the  hard-favored  portraits  of  the  heroes  of  the 
house  of  Katzenellenbogen,  and  the  trophies  which  they  had 
gained  in  the  field  and  in  the  chase.  Hacked  corselets,  splin- 
tered jousting  spears,  and  tattered  banners,  were  mingled 
with  the  spoils  of  sylvan  warfare :  the  jaws  of  the  wolf,  and 
the  tusks  of  the  boar,  grinned  horribly  among  crossbows 
and  battle-axes,  and  a  huge  pair  of  antlers  branched  imme- 
diately over  the  head  of  the  youthful  bridegroom. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  company  or  the 
entertainment.  He  scarcely  tasted  the  banquet,  but  seemed 
absorbed  in  admiration  of -his  bride.  He  conversed  in  a  low 
tone,  that  could  not  be  overheard — for  the  language  of  love 
is  never  loud ;  but  where  is  the  female  ear  so  dull  that  it 
cannot  catch  the  softest  whisper  of  the  lover?  There  was  a 
mingled  tenderness  and  gravity  in  his  manner  that  appeared 
to  have  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  young  lady.  Her  color 
came  and  went,  as  she  listened  with  deep  attention.  Now 
and  then  she  made  some  blushing  reply,  and  when  his  eye 
was  turned  away  she  would  steal  a  sidelong  glance  at  his 
romantic  countenance,  and  heave  a  gentle  sigh  of  tender 
happiness.  It  was  evident  that  the  young  couple  were  com- 
pletely enamored.  The  aunts,  who  were  deeply  versed  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  heart,  declared  that  they  had  fallen 
in  love  with  each  other  at  first  sight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily,  for  the 
guests  were  all  blessed  with  those  keen  appetites  that  attend 
upon  light  purses  and  mountain  air.  The  Baron  told  his  best 
and  longest  stories,  and  never  had  he  told  them  so  well,  or 
with  such  great  effect.  If  there  was  anything  marvelous, 
his  auditors  were  lost  in  astonishment;  and  if  anything  face- 
tious, they  were  sure  to  laugh  exactly  in  the  right  place. 
The  Baron,  it  is  true,  like  most  great  men,  was  too  dignified 


200  U/orl^s  of  U/asbii^toi? 

to  utter  any  joke  but  a  dull  one :  it  was  always  enforced, 
however,  by  a  bumper  of  excellent  Hoch-heimer ;  and  even 
a  dull  joke,  at  one's  own  table,  served  up  with  jolly  old 
wine,  is  irresistible.  Many  good,  things  were  said  by  poorer 
and  keener  wits  that  would  not  bear  repeating,  except  on 
similar  occasions;  many  sly  speeches  whispered  in  ladies' 
ears  that  almost  convulsed  them  with  suppressed  laughter; 
and  a  song  or  two  roared  out  by  a  poor,  but  merry  and 
broad-faced'  cousin  of  the  Baron,  that  absolutely  made  the 
maiden  aunts  hold  up  their  fans. 

Amid  all  this  revelry,  the  stranger-guest  maintained  a 
most  singular  and  unseasonable  gravity.  His  countenance 
assumed  a  deeper  cast  of  dejection  as  the  evening  advanced, 
and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  even  the  Baron's  jokes  seemed 
only  to  render  him  the  more  melancholy.  At  times  he  was 
lost  in  thought,  and  at  times  there  was  a  perturbed  and  rest- 
less wandering  of  the  eye  that  bespoke  a  mind  but  ill  at  ease. 
His  conversation  with  the  bride  became  more  and  more  ear- 
nest and  mysterious.  Lowering  clouds  began  to  steal  over 
the  fair  serenity  of  her  brow,  and  tremors  to  run  through  her 
tender  frame. 

All  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  company. 
Their  gayety,was  chilled  by  the  unaccountable  gloom  of  the 
bridegroom ;  their  spirits  were  infected ;  whispers  and  glances 
were  interchanged,  accompanied  by  shrugs  and  -  dubious 
shakes  of  the  head.  The  song  and  the  laugh  grew  less 
and  less  frequent:  there  were  dreary  pauses  in  the  con- 
versation, which  were  at  length  succeeded  by  wild  tales, 
and  supernatural  legends.  One  dismal  story  produced  an- 
other still  more  dismal,  and  the  Baron-  nearly  frightened 
some  of  the  ladies  into  hysterics  with  the  history  of  the 
goblin  horseman  that  carried  away  the  fair  Leonora  —  a 
dreadful,  but  true  story,  which  has  since  been  put  into  ex- 
cellent verse,  and  is  read  and  believed  by  all  the  world. 

The  bridegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  profound  atten- 
tion. He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  Baron,  and,  as 
the  story  drew  to  a  close,  began  gradually  to  rise  from  his 


Tl?e  Sketch-Book  201 

seat,  growing  taller  and  taller,  until,  in  the  Baron's  en- 
tranced eye,  he  seemed  almost  to  tower  into  a  giant.  The 
moment  the  tale  was  finished,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
took  a  solemn  farewell  of  the  company.  They  were  all 
amazement.  The  Baron  was  perfectly  thunderstruck. 

' '  What !  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight?  Why, 
everything  was  prepared  for  his  reception ;  a  chamber  was 
ready  for  him  if  he  wished  to  retire." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  mournfully  and  mysteri- 
ously: "I  must  lay  my  head  in  a  different  chamber  to- 
night!" 

There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone  in  which 
it  was  uttered,  that  made  the  Baron's  heart  misgive  him; 
but  he  rallied  his  forces,  and  repeated  his  hospitable  en- 
treaties. The  stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  posi- 
tively, at  every  offer;  and,  waving  his  farewell  to  the  com- 
pany, stalked  slowly  out  of  the  hall.  The  maiden  aunts 
were  absolutely  petrified — the  bride  hung  her  head,  and  a 
tear  stole  to  her  eye. 

The  Baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great  court  of  the 
castle,  where  the  black  charger  stood  pawing  the  earth  and 
snorting  with  impatience.  When  they  had  reached  the  por- 
tal, whose  deep  archway  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  cresset,  the 
stranger  paused,  and  addressed  the  Baron  in  a  hollow  tone 
of  voice,  which  the  vaulted  roof  rendered  still  more  sepul- 
chral. "Now  that  we  are  alone,"  said  he,  "I  will  impart  to 
you  the  reason  of  my  going.  I  have  a  solemn,  an  indispen- 
sable engagement — " 

"Why,"  said  the  Baron,  "cannot  you  send  some  one  in 
your  place?"  ,.,  *,;. 

"It  admits  of  no  substitute — I  must  attend  it  in  person— 
I  must  away  to  Wurtzburg  cathedral — " 

"Ay,"  said  the  Baron,  plucking  up  spirit,  "but  not  until 
to-morrow — to-morrow  you  shall  take  your  bride  there." 

"No!  no!"  replied  the  stranger,  with  tenfold  solemnity, 
"my  engagement  is  with  no  bride — the  worms!  the  worms 
expect  me !  I  am  a  dead  man — I  have  been  slain  by  robbers 


202  U/orl{s  of 

— my  body  lies  at  Wurtzburg — at  midnight  I  am  to  be  buried 
— the  grave  is  waiting  for  me — I  must  keep  my  appoint- 
ment!" 

He  sprang  on  his  black  charger,  dashed  over  the  draw- 
bridge, and  the  clattering  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  lost  in  the 
whistling  of  the  night-blast. 

The  Barci  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  utmost  consterna- 
tion, and  related  what  had  passed.  Two  ladies  fainted  out- 
right ;  others  sickened  at  the  idea  of  having  banqueted  with 
a  specter.  It  was  the  opinion  of  some  that  this  might  be  the 
wild  huntsman  famous  in  German  legend.  Some  talked  of 
mountain  sprites,  of  wood-demons,  and  of  other  supernatural 
beings,  with  which  the  good  people  of  Germany  have  been 
so  grievously  harassed  since  time  immemorial.  One  of  the 
poor  relations  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might  be  some 
sportive  evasion  of  the  young  cavalier,  and  that  the  very 
gloominess  of  the  caprice  seemed  to  accord  with  so  melan- 
choly a  personage.  This,  however,  drew  on  him  the  indig- 
nation of  the  whole  company,  and  especially  of  the  Baron, 
who  looked  upon  him  as  little  better  than  an  infidel ;  so  that 
he  was  fain  to  abjure  his  heresy  as  speedily  as  possible,  and 
come  into  the  faith  of  the  true  believers. 

But,  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  entertained, 
they  were  completely  put  to  an  end  by  the  arrival,  next  day, 
of  regular  missives  confirming  the  intelligence  of  the  young 
Count's  murder,  and  his  interment  in  Wurtzburg  cathedral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  may  well  be  imagined.  The 
Baron  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber.  The  guests  who  had 
come  to  rejoice  with  him  could  not  think  of  abandoning  him 
in  his  distress.  They  wandered  about  the  courts,  or  collected 
in  groups  in  the  hall,  shaking  their  heads  and  shrugging 
their  shoulders  at  the  troubles  of  so  good  a  man ;  and  sat 
longer  than  ever  at  table,  and  ate  and  drank  more  stoutly 
than  ever,  by  way  of  keeping  up  their  spirits.  But  the  situa- 
tion of  the  widowed  bride  was  the  most  pitiable.  To  have 
lost  a  husband  before  she  had  even  embraced  him — and  such 
a  husband  1  if  the  very  specter  could  be  so  gracious  and  noble, 


203 

what  must  have  been  the  living  man?     She  filled  the  house 
with  lamentations. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widowhood,  she 
had  retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied  by  one  of  her  aunts, 
who  insisted  on  sleeping  with  her.  The  aunt,  who  was  one 
of  the  best  tellers  of  ghost  stories  in  all  Germany,  had  just 
been  recounting  one  of  her  longest,  and  had  fallen  asleep  in 
the  very  midst  of  it.  The  chamber  was  remote,  and  over- 
looked a  small  garden.  The  niece  lay  pensively  gazing  at  the 
beams  of  the  rising  moon,  as  they  trembled  on  the  leaves  of 
an  aspen  tree  before  the  lattice.  The  castle  clock  had  just 
told  midnight,  when  a  soft  strain  of  music  stole  up  from  the 
garden.  She  rose  hastily  from  her  bed  and  stepped  lightly 
to  the  window.  A  tall  figure  stood  among  the  shadows  of 
the  trees.  As  it  raised  its  head,  a  beam  of  moonlight  fell 
upon  the  countenance.  Heaven  and  earth!  she  beheld  the 
Specter  Bridegroom!  A  loud  shriek  at  that  moment  burst 
upon  her  ear,  and  her  aunt,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the 
music,  and  had  followed  her  silently  to  the  window,  fell  into 
her  arms.  When  she  looked  again,  the  specter  had  disap- 


Of  the  two  females,  the  aunt  now  required  the  most 
soothing,  for  she  was  perfectly  beside  herself  with  terror. 
As  to  the  young  lady,  there  was  something,  even  in  the 
specter  of  her  lover,  that  seemed  endearing.  There  was  still 
the  semblance  of  manly  beauty ;  and  though  the  shadow  of  a 
man  is  but  little  calculated  to  satisfy  the  affections  of  a  love- 
sick girl,  yet,  where  the  substance  is  not  to  be  had,  even  that 
is  consoling.  The  aunt  declared  she  would  never  sleep  in 
that  chamber  again ;  the  niece,  for  once,  was  refractory,  an,d 
declared  as  strongly  that  she  would  sleep  in  no  other  in  the 
castle :  the  consequence  was  that  she  had  to  sleep  in  it  alone ; 
but  she  drew  a  promise  from  her  aunt  not  to  relate  the  story 
of  the  specter,  lest  she  should  be  denied  the  only  melancholy 
pleasure  left  her  on  earth — that  of  inhabiting  the  chamber  over 
which  the  guardian  shade  of  her  lover  kept  its  nightly  vigils. 

How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  observed  this 


204  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi>  Iruii?<? 

promise  is  uncertain,  for  she  dearly  loved  to  talk  of  the  mar- 
velous, and  there  is  a  triumph  in  being  the  first  to  tell  a 
frightful  story ;  it  is,  however,  still  quoted  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, as  a  memorable  instance  of  female  secrecy,  that  she 
kept  it  to  herself  for  a  whole  week ;  when  she  was  suddenly 
absolved  from  all  further  restraint  by  intelligence  brought  to 
the  breakfast-table  one  morning  that  the  young  lady  was  not 
to  be  found.  Her  room  was  empty — the  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in — the  window  was  open — and  the  bird  had  flown ! 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the  intelli- 
gence was  received  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  who  have 
witnessed  the  agitation  which  the  mishaps  of  a  great  man 
cause  among  his  friends.  Even  the  poor  relations  paused  for 
a  moment  from  the  indefatigable  labors  of  the  trencher ;  when 
the  aunt,  who  had  at  first  been  struck  speechless,  wrung  her 
hands  and  shrieked  out,  "The  goblin!  the  goblin!  She's  car- 
ried away  by  the  goblin!" 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of  the  gar- 
den, and  concluded  that  the  specter  must  have  carried  off  his 
bride.  Two  of  the  domestics  corroborated  the  opinion,  for 
they  had  heard  the  clattering  of  a  horse's  hoofs  down  the 
mountain  about  midnight,  and  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  the 
specter  on  his  black  charger,  bearing  her  away  to  the  tomb. 
All  present  were  struck  with  the  direful  probability;  for 
events  of  the  kind  are  extremely  common  in  Germany, 
as  many  well-authenticated  histories  bear  witness. 

What  a  lamentable  situation  was  that  of  the  poor  Baron ! 
What  a  heartrending  dilemma  for  a  fond  father,  and  a 
member  of  the  great  family  of  Katzenellenbogen !  His  only 
daughter  had  either  been  rapt  away  to  the  grave,  or  he 
was  to  have  some  wood-demon  for  a  son-in-law,  and,  per- 
chance, a  troop  of  goblin  grandchildren.  As  usual,  he  was 
completely  bewildered,  and  all  the  castle  in  an  uproar.  The 
men  were  ordered  to  take  horse  and  scour  every  road  and 
path  and  glen  of  the  Odenwald.  The  Baron  himself  had 
just  drawn  on  his  jack-boots,  girded  on  his  sword,  and  was 
about  to  mount  his  steed  to  sally  forth  on  the  doubtful  quest, 


205 

when  he  was  brought  to  a  pause  by  a  new  apparition.  A 
lady  was  seen  approaching  the  castle,  mounted  on  a  palfrey 
attended  by  a  cavalier  on  horseback.  She  galloped  up  to 
the  gate,  sprang  from  her  horse,  and  falling  at  the  Baron's 
feet,  embraced  his  knees.  It  was  his  lost  daughter,  and  her 
companion — the  Specter  Bridegroom!  The  Baron  was  as- 
tounded. He  looked  at  his  daughter,  then  at  the  specter, 
and  almost  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  senses.  The  latter, 
too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his  appearance,  since  his 
visit  to  the  world  of  spirits.  His  dress  was  splendid,  and  set 
off  a  noble  figure  of  manly  symmetry.  He  was  no  longer 
pale  and  melancholy.  His  fine  countenance  was  flushed 
with  the  glow  of  youth,  and  joy  rioted  in  his  large  dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cavalier  (for,  in 
truth,  as  you  must  have  known  all  the  while,  he  was  no 
goblin)  announced  himself  as  Sir  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust. 
He  related  his  adventure  with  the  young  Count.  He  told 
how  he  had  hastened  to  the  castle  to  deliver  the  unwelcome 
tidings,  but  that  the  eloquence  of  the  Baron  had  interrupted 
him  in  every  attempt  to  tell  his  tale.  How  the  sight  of  the 
bride  had  completely  captivated  him,  and  that  to  pass  a  few 
hours  near  her  he  had  tacitly  suffered  the  mistake  to  continue. 
How  he  had  been  sorely  perplexed  in  what  way  to  make  a 
decent  retreat,  until  the  Baron's  goblin  stories  had  suggested 
his  eccentric  exit.  How,  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of  the 
family,  he  had  repeated  his  visits  by  stealth — had  haunted 
the  garden  beneath  the  young  lady's  window — had  wooed — 
had  won — had  borne  away  in  triumph — and,  in  a  word,  had 
wedded  the  fair. 

Under  any  other  circumstances  the  Baron  would  have 
been  inflexible,  for  he  was  tenacious  of  paternal  authority 
and  devoutly  obstinate  in  all  family  feuds ;  but  he  loved  his 
daughter;  he  had  lamented  her  as  lost;  he  rejoiced  to  find 
her  still  alive ;  and,  though  her  husband  was  of  a  hostile 
house,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  he  was  not  a  goblin.  There  was 
something,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  did  not  exactly 
accord  with  his  notions  of  strict  veracity,  in  the  joke  the 


206  U/orl^s  of  U/a»l?ii)$too  Irvir><$ 

knight  had  passed  upon  him  of  his  being  a  dead  man ;  but 
several  old  friends  present,  who  had  served  in  the  wars,  as- 
sured him  that  every  stratagem  was  excusable  in  love,  and 
that  the  cavalier  was  entitled  to  especial  privilege,  having 
lately  served  as  a  trooper. 

Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The  Baron 
pardoned  the  young  couple  on  the  spot.  The  revels  at  the 
castle  were  resumed.  The  poor  relations  overwhelmed  this 
new  member  of  the  family  with  loving-kindness;  he  was  so 
gallant,  so  generous — and  so  rich.  The  aunts,  it  is  true, 
were  somewhat  scandalized  that  their  system  of  strict  seclu- 
sion, and  passive  obedience,  should  be  so  badly  exemplified, 
but  attributed  it  all  to  their  negligence  in  not  having  the 
windows  grated.  One  of  them  was  particularly  mortified  at 
having  her  marvelous  story  marred,  and  that  the  only  specter 
she  had  ever  seen  should  turn  out  a  counterfeit ;  but  the  niece 
seemed  perfectly  happy  at  having  found  him  substantial  flesh 
and  blood — and  so  the  story  ends. 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 

"When  I  behold,  with  deep  astonishment, 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte, 
Living  in  brasse  or  stony  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorte ; 
Doe  not  I  see  reformed  nobilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation, 
And  looke  upon  offenseless  majesty, 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination? 
And  how  a  play -game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon 
Could  not  content  nor  quench  their  appetites. 
Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie, 
And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie." 

— Christolero's  Epigrams,  by  T.  B.,  1598. 

ON  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days,  in  the 
latter  part  of  autumn,  when  the  shadows  of  morning  and 


The  Sketch-Book  207 

evening  almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the 
decline  of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  in  rambling  about 
Westminster  Abbey.  There  was  something  congenial  to  the 
season  in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile;  and  as 
I  passed  its  threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the 
regions  of  antiquity,  and  losing  myself  among  the  shades  of 
former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  "Westminster  school, 
through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost 
subterranean  look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  by  circu- 
lar perforations  in  the  massive  walls.  Through  this  dark 
avenue  I  had  a  distant  view  of  the  cloisters,  with  the  figure 
of  an  old  verger,  in  his  black  gown,  moving  along  their 
shadowy  vaults,  and  seeming  like  a  specter  from  one  of  the 
neighboring  tombs. 

The  approach  to  the  abbey  through  these  gloomy  monas- 
tic remains  prepares  the  mind  for  its  solemn  contemplation. 
The  cloister  still  retains  something  of  the  quiet  and  seclusion 
of  former  days.  The  gray  walls  are  discolored  by  damps 
and  crumbling  with  age;  a  coat  of  hoary  moss  has  gathered 
over  the  inscriptions  of  the  mural  monuments,  and  obscured 
the  death's  heads,  and  other  funeral  emblems.  The  sharp 
touches  of  the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich  tracery  of  the 
arches ;  the  roses  which  adorned  the  keystones  have  lost  their 
leafy  beauty ;  everything  bears  marks  of  the  gradual  dilapi- 
dations of  time,  which  yet  has  something  touching  and  pleas- 
ing in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray  into 
the  square  of  the  cloisters ;  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of 
grass  in  the  center,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the  vaulted 
passage  with  a  kind  of  dusty  splendor.  From  between  the 
arcades,  the  eye  glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky,  or  a  passing 
cloud ;  and  beheld  the  sun -gilt  pinnacles  of  the  abbey  tower- 
ing into  the  azure  heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating1  this 
mingled  picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  en- 
deavoring to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones, 


208  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip<Jtoi) 

which  formed  the  pavement  beneath  my  feet,  my  eyes  were 
attracted  to  three  figures,  rudely  carved  in  relief,  but  nearly 
worn  away  by  the  footsteps  of  many  generations.  They 
we?e  the  effigies  of  three  of  the  early  abbots ;  the  epitaphs 
were  entirely  effaced;  the  names  alone  remained,  having  no 
doubt  been  renewed  in  later  time  (Vitalis.  Abbas.  1082,  and 
Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Abbas.  1114,  and  Laurentius.  Abbas. 
1176).  I  remained  some  little  while  musing  over  these  cas- 
ual relics  of  antiquity,  thus  left  like  wrecks  upon  this  distant 
shore  of  time,  telling  no  tale  but  that  such  beings  had  been 
and  had  perished ;  teaching  no  moral  but  the  futility  of  that 
pride  which  hopes  still  to  exact  homage  in  its  ashes,  and  to 
live  in  an  inscription.  A  little  longer,  and  even  these  faint 
records  will  be  obliterated  and  the  monument  will  cease  to 
be  a  memorial.  While  I  was  yet  looking  down  upon  the 
gravestones,  I  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  abbey  clock, 
reverberating  from  buttress  to  buttress,  and  echoing  among 
the  cloisters.  It  is  almost  startling  to  hear  this  warning  of 
departed  tune  sounding  among  the  tombs,  and  telling  the 
lapse  of  the  hour,  which,  like  a  billow,  has  rolled  us  onward 
toward  the  grave. 

I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  in- 
terior of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  the  magnitude  of  the 
building  breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the 
vaults  of  the  cloisters.  The  eye  gazes  with  wonder  at  clus- 
tered columns  of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing 
from  them  to  such  an  amazing  height ;  and  man  wandering 
about  their  bases,  shrunk  into  insignificance  in  comparison 
with  his  own  handiwork.  The  spaciousness  and  gloom  of 
this  vast  edifice  produce  a  profound  and  mysterious  awe. 
We  step  cautiously  and  softly  about,  as  if  fearful  of  disturb- 
ing the  hallowed  silence  of  the  tomb;  while  every  footfall 
whispers  along  the  walls  and  chatters  among  the  sepulchers, 
making  us  more  sensible  of  the  quiet  we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses  down 
upon  the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  rever- 
ence. We  feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated 


Tl?e  Sketch-Book  209 

bones  of  the  great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  history 
with  their  deeds  and  the  earth  with  their  renown.  And  yet 
it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the  vanity  of  human  ambition, 
to  see  how  they  are  crowded  together,  and  justled  in  the 
dust ;  what  parsimony  is  observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty 
nook — a  gloomy  corner— a  little  portion  of  earth,  to  those 
whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms  could  not  satisfy:  and  how 
many  shapes,  and  forms,  and  artifices,  are  devised  to  catch 
the  casual  notice  of  the  passenger,  and  save  from  forgetful- 
ness,  for  a  few  short  years,  a  name  which  once  aspired  to 
occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and  admiration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which  occupies  an 
end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  abbey.  The 
monuments  are  generally  simple;  for  the  lives  of  literary 
men  afford  no  striking  themes  for  the  sculptor.  Shakespeare 
and  Addison  have  statues  erected  to  their  memories;  but  the 
greater  part  have  busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  in- 
scriptions. Notwithstanding  the  simplicity  of  these  memo- 
rials, I  have  always  observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey 
remain  longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and  fonder  feeling 
takes  place  of  that  cold  curiosity  or  vague  admiration  with 
which  they  gaze  on  the  splendid  monuments  of  the  great 
and  the  heroic.  They  linger  about  these  as  about  the  tombs 
of  friends  and  companions;  for  indeed  there  is  something  of 
companionship  between  the  author  and  the  reader.  Other 
men  are  known  to  posterity  only  through  the  medium  of  his- 
tory, which  is  continually  growing  faint  and  obscure;  but 
the  intercourse  between  the  author  and  his  f ellowmen  is  ever 
new,  active,  and  immediate.  He  has  lived  for  them  more 
than  for  himself;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding  enjoyments, 
and  shut  himself  up  from  the  delights  of  social  life,  that  he 
might  the  more  intimately  commune  with  distant  minds  and 
distant  ages.  Well  may  the  world  cherish  his  renown;  for 
it  has  been  purchased,  not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood, 
but  by  the  diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.  Well  may  pos- 
terity be  gratetol  to  his  memory ;  for  he  has  left  it  an  in- 
heritance, not  of  empty  names  and  sounding  actions,  but 


810  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii?<$tor)  Irvir?<$ 

whole  treasures  of  wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought,  and 
golden  veins  of  language. 

From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  my  stroll  toward  that 
part  of  the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchers  of  the  kings. 
I  wandered  among  what  once  were  chapels,  but  which  are 
now  occupied  by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great.  At 
every  turn,  I  met  with  some  illustrious  name,  or  the  cogni- 
zance of  some  powerful  house  renowned  in  history.  As  the 
eye  darts  into  these  dusky  chambers  of  death,  it  catches 
glimpses  of  quaint  effigies:  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as  if 
in  devotion;  others  stretched  upon  the  tombs,  with  hands 
piously  pressed  together;  warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing 
after  battle ;  prelates,  with  crosiers  and  miters ;  and  nobles 
in  robes  and  coronets,  lying,  as  it  were,  in  state.  In  glanc- 
ing over  this  scene,  so  strangely  populous,  yet  where  every 
form  is  so  still  and  silent,  it  seems  almost  as  if  we  were  tread- 
ing a  mansion  of  that  fabled  city  where  every  being  had 
been  suddenly  transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy 
of  a  knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler  was  on  one 
arm ;  the  hands  were  pressed  together  in  supplication  upon 
the  breast;  the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the  morion;  the 
legs  were  crossed  in  token  of  the  warrior's  having  been  en- 
gaged in  the  holy  war.  It  was  the  tomb  of  a  crusader;  of 
one  of  those  military  enthusiasts  who  so  strangely  mingled 
religion  and  romance,  and  whose  exploits  form  the  connect- 
ing link  between  fact  and  fiction— between  the  history  and 
the  fairy  tale.  There  is  something  extremely  picturesque 
in  the  tombs  of  these  adventurers,  decorated,  as  they  are, 
with  rude  armorial  bearings  and  Gothic  sculpture.  They 
comport  with  the  antiquated  chapels  in  which  they  are  gen- 
erally found;  and  in  considering  them,  the  imagination  is 
apt  to  kindle  with  the  legendary  associations,  the  romantic 
fictions,  the  chivalrous  pomp  and  pageantry,  which  poetry 
has  spread  over  the  wars  for  the  Sepulcher  of  Christ.  They 
are  the  relics  of  times  utterly  gone  by ;  of  beings  passed  from 
recollection ;  of  customs  and  manners  with  which  ours  have 


Jl?e  SKeteb-BooK  211 

no  affinity.  They  are  like  objects  from  some  strange  and  dis- 
tant land,  of  which  we  have  no  certain  knowledge,  and  about 
which  all  our  conceptions  are  vague  and  visionary.  There 
is  something  extremely  solemn  and  awful  in  those  effigies  on 
Gothic  tombs,  extended  as  if  in  the  sleep  of  death  or  in  the 
supplication  of  the  dying  hour.  They  have  an  effect  in- 
finitely more  impressive  on  my  feelings  than  the  fanciful 
attitudes,  the  overwrought  conceits  and  allegorical  groups, 
which  abound  on  modern  monuments.  I  have  been  struck, 
also,  with  the  superiority  of  many  of  the  old  sepulchral  in- 
scriptions. There  was  a  noble  way,  in  former  times,  of  say- 
ing things  simply,  and  yet  saying  them  proudly ;  and  I  do 
not  know  an  epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier  consciousness  of 
family  worth  and  honorable  lineage  than  one  which  affirms, 
of  a  noble  house,  that  "all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all 
the  sisters  virtuous." 

In  the  opposite  transept  of  Poet's'  Corner  stands  a  monu- 
ment which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achievements  of 
modern  art ;  but  which,  to  me,  appears  horrible  rather  than 
sublime.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,  by  Roubillac. 
The  bottom  of  the  monument  is  represented  as  thro  whig  open 
its  marble  doors,  and  a  sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth. 
The  shroud  is  falling  from  his  fleshless  frame  as  he  lanches 
his  dart  at  his  victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted 
husband's  arms,  who  strives,  with  vain  and  frantic  effort,  to 
avert  the  blow.  The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible  truth 
and  spirit ;  we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering  yell  of 
triumph  bursting  from  the  distended  jaws  of  the  specter. — 
But  why  should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  unneces- 
sary terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors  round  the  tomb  of  those 
we  love?  The  grave  should  be  surrounded  by  everything 
that  might  inspire  tenderness  and  veneration  for  the  dead ; 
or  that  might  win  the  living  to  virtue.  It  is  the  place,  not 
of  disgust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and  meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent 
aisles,  studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the  sound  of  busy 
existence  from  without  occasionally  reaches  the  ear:  the 


212  U/orks  of  U/asl?ii7$toi)  Irvir,<J 

rumbling  of  the  passing  equipage;  -the  murmur  of  the  mul- 
titude; or  perhaps  the  light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast 
is  striking  with  the  deathlike  repose  around;  and  it  has  a 
strange  effect  upon  the  feelings,  thus  to  hear  the  surges  of 
active  life  hurrying  along  and  beating  against  the  very  walls 
of  the  sepulcher. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb,  and 
from  chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually  wearing 
away;  the  distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey  grew  less 
and  less  frequent ;  the  sweet-tongued  bell  was  summoning 
to  evening  prayers ;  and  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choristers,  in 
their  white  surplices,  crossing  the  aisle  and  entering  the  choir. 
I  stood  before  the  entrance  to  Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel. 
A  flight  of  steps  leads  up  to  it,  through  a  deep  and  gloomy, 
but  magnificent  arch.  Great  gates  of  brass,  richly  and  deli- 
cately wrought,  turn  heavily  upon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly 
reluctant  to  admit  the  feet  of  common  mortals  into  this  most 
gorgeous  of  sepulchers. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  archi- 
tecture, and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The 
very  walls  are  wrought  into  universal  ornament,  incrusted 
with  tracery,  and  scooped  into  niches,  crowded  with  the 
statues  of  saints  and  martyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  the  cunning 
labor  of  the  chisel,  to  have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and 
density,  suspended  aloft,  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof 
achieved  with  the  wonderful  minuteness  and  airy  security  of 
a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Bath,  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with  the 
grotesque  decorations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On  the  pin- 
nacles of  the  stalls  are  affixed  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the 
knights,  with  their  scarfs  and  swords;  and  above  them  are 
suspended  their  banners,  emblazoned  with  armorial  bearings, 
and  contrasting  the  splendor  of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson 
with  the  cold  gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In  the  midst  of  this 
grand  mausoleum  stands  the  sepulcher  of  its  founder — his 
effigy,  with  that  of  his  queen,  extended  on  a  sumptuous 


Jl?e  Sketel?-BooK  213 

tomb,  and  the  whole  surrounded  by  a  superbly  wrought 
brazen  railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence;  this 
strange  mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies;  these  emblems  of 
living  and  aspiring  ambition,  close  beside  mementos  which 
show  the  dust  and  oblivion  in  which  all  must  sooner  or  later 
terminate.  Nothing  impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feel- 
ing of  loneliness  than  to  tread  the  silent  and  deserted  scene 
of  former  throng  and  pageant.  On  looking  round  on  the 
vacant  stalls  of  the  knights  and  their  esquires,  and  on  the 
rows  of  dusty  but  gorgeous  banners  that  were  once  borne  be- 
fore them,  my  imagination  conjured  up  the  scene  when  this 
hall  was  bright  with  the  valor  and  beauty  of  the  land ;  glit- 
tering with  the  splendor  of  jeweled  rank  and  military  array ; 
alive  with  the  tread  of  many  feet,  and  the  hum  of  an  admir- 
ing multitude.  All  had  passed  away ;  the  silence  of  death 
had  settled  again  upon  the  place ;  interrupted  only  by  the 
casual  chirping  of  birds,  which  had  found  their  way  into 
the  chapel,  and  built  their  nests  among  its  friezes  and  pen- 
dents— sure  signs  of  solitariness  and  desertion.  "When  I 
read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  banners,  they  were  those  of 
men  scattered  far  and  wide  about  the  world ;  some  tossing 
upon  distant  seas ;  some  under  arms  in  distant  lands ;  some 
mingling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of  courts  and  cabinets :  all 
seeking  to  deserve  one  more  distinction  in  this  mansion  of 
shadowy  honors— the  melancholy  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a 
touching  instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave  which  brings 
down  the  oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and  mingles 
the  dust  of  the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  the 
sepulcher  of  the  haughty  Elizabeth;  in  the  other  is  that  of 
her  victim,  the  lovely  and  unfortunate  Mary.  Not  an  hour 
in  the  day  but  some  ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the 
fate  of  the  latter,  mingled  with  indignation  at  her  oppressor. 
The  walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulcher  continually  echo  with  the 
sighs  of  sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where  Mary 


214  Works  of  U/as1?ii)($toi)  Iruir>$ 

lies  buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows 
darkened  by  dust.  The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep 
shadow,  and  the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and 
weather.  A  marble  figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  upon  the 
tomb,  round  which  is  an  iron  railing,  much  corroded,  bear- 
ing her  national  emblem — the  thistle.  I  was  weary  with 
wandering,  and  sat  down  to  rest  myself  by  the  monument, 
revolving  in  my  mind  the  checkered  and  disastrous  story  of 
poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abbey. 
I  could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the 
priest  repeating  the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses 
of  the  choir;  these  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed. 
The  stillness,  the  desertion  and  obscurity  that  were  grad- 
ually prevailing  around,  gave  a  deeper  and  more  solemn 
interest  to  the  place : 

"For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel— nothing's  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness." 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon 
the  ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and 
rolling,  as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do 
their  volume  and  grandeur  accord  with  this  mighty  build- 
ing !  With  what  pomp  do  they  swell  through  its  vast  vaults, 
and  breathe  their  awful  harmony  through  these  caves  of 
death,  and  make  the  silent  sepulcher  vocal! — And  now  they 
rise  in  triumphant  acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher 
their  accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on  sound. — And  now 
they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into 
sweet  gushes  of  melody;  they  soar  aloft,  and  warble  along 
the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the 
pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the  pealing  organ  heaves  its 
thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air  into  music,  and  rolling 
it  forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn  cadences !  What 


The  Sketel?-BooK  215 

solemn  sweeping  concords!  It  grows  more  and  more  dense 
and  powerful — it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very 
walls — the  ear  is  stunned — the  senses  are  overwhelmed.  And 
now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee — it  is  rising  from  the 
earth  to  heaven — the  very  soul  seems  rapt  away,  and  floated 
upward  on  this  swelling  tide  of  harmony ! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a 
strain  of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire :  the  shadows  of 
evening  were  gradually  thickening  around  me;  the  monu- 
ments began  to  cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom ;  and  the  dis- 
tant clock  again  gave  token  of  the  slowly  waning  day. 

I  arose,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I  descended 
the  flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building, 
my  eye  was  caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor, 
and  I  ascended  the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take 
from  thence  a  general  survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs. 
The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of  platform,  and  close 
around  it  are  the  sepulchers  of  various  kings  and  queens. 
From  this  eminence  the  eye  looks  down  between  pillars  and 
funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels  and  chambers  below,  crowded 
with  tombs ;  where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers,  and  states- 
men, lie  mouldering  in  "their  beds  of  darkness."  Close  by 
me  stood  the  great  chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak, 
in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age.  The 
scene  seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,  with  theatrical  artifice, 
to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  beholder.  Here  was  a  type  of 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  human  pomp  and  power;  here 
it  was  literally  but  a  step  from  the  throne  to  the  sepulcher. 
Would  not  one  think  that  these  incongruous  mementos  had 
been  gathered  together  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness? — to 
show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation,  the 
neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon  arrive?  .how  soon 
that  crown  which  encircles  its  brow  must  pass  away;  and 
it  must  lie  down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tomb,  and 
be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet  of  the  meanest  of  the  multi- 
tude? For,  strange  to  tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no  longer 
a  sanctuary.  There  is  a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures 


216  U/ork»  of  U/asl?ii?$toi? 

which  leads  them  to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things; 
and  there  are  base  minds  which  delight  to  revenge  on  the 
illustrious  dead  the  abject  homage"  and  groveling  servility 
which  they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coffin  of  Edward  the 
Confessor  has  been  broken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled 
of  their  funeral  ornaments ;  the  scepter  has  been  stolen  from 
the  hand  of  the  imperious  Elizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry 
the  Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears 
some  proof  how  false  and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind. 
Some  are  plundered;  some  mutilated;  some  covered  with 
ribaldry  and  insult — all  more  or  less  outraged  and  dishonored ! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through 
the  painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me :  the  lower 
parts  of  the  abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of 
twilight.  The  chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker. 
The  effigies  of  the  kings  faded  into  shadows;  the  marble 
figures  of  the  monuments  assumed  strange  shapes  in  the  un- 
certain light ;  the  evening  breeze  crept  through  the  aisles  like 
the  cold  breath  of  the  grave ;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of 
a  verger,  traversing  the  Poet's  Corner,  had  something  strange 
and  dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my  morning's 
walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters,  the 
door,  closing  with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole 
building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of 
the  objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were 
already  falling  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names, 
inscriptions,  trophies,  had  all  become  confounded  in  my  rec- 
ollection, though  I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off  the 
threshold.  What,  thought  I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of 
sepulchers  but  a  treasury  of  humiliation ;  a  huge  pile  of  re- 
iterated homilies  on  the  emptiness  of  renown  and  the  cer- 
tainty of  oblivion?  It  is,  indeed,  the  empire  of  Death;  his 
great  shadowy  palace ;  where  he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at  the 
relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and  forgetfulness 
on  the  monuments  of  princes.  How  idle  a  boast,  after  all, 
is  the  immortality  of  a  name !  Time  is  ever  silently  turning 


217 

over  his  pages ;  we  are  too  much  engrossed  by  the  story  of 
the  present  to  think  of  the  characters  and  anecdotes  that 
gave  interest  to  the  past;  and  each  age  is  a  volume  thrown 
aside  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day  pushes  the 
hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection;  and  will,  in  turn, 
be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-morrow.  '  *  Our  fathers, ' ' 
says  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  "find  their  graves  in  our  short 
memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our 
survivors."  „  History  fades  into  fable;  fact  becomes  clouded 
with  doubt  and  controversy;  the  inscription  moulders  from 
the  tablet;  the  statue  falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns, 
arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they  but  heaps  of  sand— and 
their  epitaphs  but  characters  written  in  the  dust?  What  is 
the  security  of  the  tomb,  or  the  perpetuity  of  an  embalm- 
ment? The  remains  of  Alexander  the  Great  have  been  scat- 
tered to  the  wind,  and  his  empty  sarcophagus  is  now  the 
mere  curiosity  of  a  museum.  "The  Egyptian  mummies 
which  Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  con- 
sumeth;  Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  fop 
balsams."* 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile,  which  now  towers  above 
me,  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums?  The 
time  must  come  when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so 
loftily,  shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet;  when,  instead 
of  the  sound  of  melody  and  praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle 
through  the  broken  arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  shat- 
tered tower — when  the  garish  sunbeam  shall  break  into  these 
gloomy  mansions  of  death;  and  the  ivy  twine  round  the 
fallen  column;  and  the  fox-glove  hang  its  blossoms  about 
the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man 
passes  away;  his  name  perishes  from  record  and  recollec- 
tion; his  history  is  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  and  his  very 
monument  becomes  a  ruin. 

*  Sir  Thomas  Brown. 


*  *  *10  VOL.  L 


218  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir;<$tor>  Iruli)? 


CHRISTMAS 

"But  is  old,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone?  Nothing  but  the  hair  of 
his  good,  gray,  old  head  and  beard  left?  Well,  I  will  have  that,  seeing 
I  cannot  have  more  of  him." — Hue  and  Cry  after  Christmas 

"A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall, 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden, 
When  this  old  cap  was  new."—  Old  Song 

THERE  is  nothing  in  England  that  exercises  a  more  de- 
lightful spell  over  my  imagination  than  the  lingerings  of  the 
holyday  customs  and  rural  games  of  former  times.  They 
recall  the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the  May  morn- 
ing of  life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the  world  through 
books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that  poets  had  painted  it;  and 
they  bring  with  them  the  flavor  of  those  honest  days  of  yore, 
in  which,  perhaps  with  equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt  to  think  the 
world  was  more  homebred,  social,  and  joyous  than  at  pres- 
ent. I  regret  to  say  that  they  are  daily  growing  more  and 
more  faint,  being  gradually  worn  away  by  time,  but  still 
more  obliterated  by  modern  fashion.  They  resemble  those 
picturesque  morsels  of  Gothic  architecture,  which  we  see 
crumbling  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  partly  dilapidated 
by  the  waste  of  ages,  and  partly,  lost  in  the  additions  and 
alterations  of  latter  days.  Poetry,  however,  clings  with 
cherishing  fondness  about  the  rural  game  and  holyday  revel 
from  which  it  has  derived  so  many  of  its  themes — as  the  ivy 
winds  its  rich  foliage  about  the  Gothic  arch  and  mouldering 


Tl?e  SKetel?-BooK  219 

tower,  gratefully  repaying  their  support,  by  clasping  to- 
gether their  tottering  remains,  and,  as  it  were,  embalming 
them  in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas 
awakens  the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations. 
There  is  a  tone  of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends 
with  our  conviviality,  and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hal- 
lowed and  elevated  enjoyment.  The  services  of  the  church 
about  this  season  are  extremely  tender  and  inspiring :  they 
dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of  our  faith,  and 
the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its  announcement :  they 
gradually  increase  in  fervor  and  pathos  during  the  season  of 
Advent,  until  they  break  forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the  morning 
that  brought  peace  and  good-will  to  men.  I  do  not  know  a 
grander  effect  of  music  on  the  moral  feelings  than  to  hear  the 
full  choir  and  the  pealing  organ  performing  a  Christmas 
anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and  filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile 
with  triumphant  harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  days  of 
yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  announce- 
ment of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been  made  the 
season  for  gathering  together  of  family  connections,  and 
drawing  closer  again  those  bands  of  kindred  hearts  which 
the  cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the  world  are  con- 
tinually operating  to  cast  loose ;  of  calling  back  the  children 
of  a  family,  who  have  launched  forth  in  life,  and  wandered 
widely  asunder,  once  more  to  assemble  about  the  paternal 
hearth,  that  rallying-place  of  the  affections,  there  to  grow 
young  and  loving  again  among  the  endearing  mementos  of 
childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year  that 
gives  a  charm  to  .the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other  times, 
we  derive  a  great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere 
beauties  of  Nature.  Our  feelings  sally  forth  and  dissipate 
themselves  over  the  sunny  landscape,  and  we  "live  abroad 
and  everywhere."  The  song  of  the  bird,  the  murmur  of  the 
stream,  the  breathing  fragrance  of  spring,  the  soft  voluptu- 


220  U/or^g  of  U/asl?ir?$top 

ousness  of  summer,  the  golden  pomp  of  autumn;  earth  with 
its  mantle  of  refreshing  green,  and  heaven  with  its  deep  de- 
licious blue  and  its  cloudy  magnificence — all  fill  us  with  mute 
but  exquisite  delight,  and  we  revel  in  the  luxury  of  mere 
sensation.  But  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when  Nature  lies 
despoiled  of  every  charm,  and  wrapped  in  her  shroud  of 
sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our  gratifications  to  moral  sources. 
The  dreariness  and  desolation  of  the  landscape,  the  short 
gloomy  days  and  darksome  nights,  while  they  circumscribe 
our  wanderings,  shut  in  our  feelings  also  from  rambling 
abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly  disposed  for  the  pleasures 
of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts  are  more  concentrated; 
our  friendly  sympathies  more  aroused.  We  feel  more  sen- 
sibly the  charm  of  each  other's  society,  and  are  brought  more 
closely  together  by  dependence  on  each  other  for  enjoyment. 
Heart  calleth  unto  heart,  and  we  draw  our  pleasures  from 
the  deep  wells  of  living  kindness  which  lie  in  the  quiet  re- 
cesses cf  our  bosoms ;  and  which,  when  resorted  to,  furnish 
forth  the  pure  element  of  domestic  felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on  en- 
tering the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the  even- 
ing fire.  The  ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and 
sunshine  through  the  room,  and  lights  up  each  countenance 
into  a  kindlier  welcome.  Where  does  the  honest  face  of  hos- 
pitality expand  into  a  broader  and  more  cordial  smile — where 
is  the  shy  glance  of  love  more  sweetly  eloquent — than  by  the 
winter  fireside?  and  as  the  hollow  blast  of  wintry  wind  rushes 
through  the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door,  whistles  about  the 
casement,  and  rumbles  down  the  chimney,  what  can  be  more 
grateful  than  that  feeling  of  sober  and  sheltered  security 
with  which  we  look  round  upon  the  comfortable  chamber, 
and  the  scene  of  domestic  hilarity? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habits 
throughout  every  class  of  society,  have  always  been  fond  of 
those  festivals  and  holydays  which  agreeably  interrupt  the 
stillness  of  country  life ;  and  they  were  in  former  days  par- 
ticularly observant  of  the  religious  and  social  rights  of  Christ- 


221 

mas.  It  is  inspiring  to  read  even  the  dry  details  which  some 
antiquaries  have  given  of  the  quaint  humors,  the  burlesque 
pageants,  the  complete  abandonment  to  mirth  and  good  fel- 
lowship, with  which  this  festival  was  celebrated.  It  seemed 
to  throw  open  every  door  and  unlock  every  heart.  It  brought 
the  peasant  and  the  peer  together,  and  blended  all  ranks  in 
one  warm  generous  flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The  old  halls 
of  castles  and  manor-houses  resounded  with  the  harp  and 
the  Christmas  carol,  and  their  ample  boards  groaned  under 
the  weight  of  hospitality:  Even  the  poorest  cottage  wel- 
comed the  festive  season  with  green  decorations  of  bay  and 
holly ;  the  cheerful  fire  glanced  its  rays  through  the  lattice, 
inviting  the  passenger  to  raise  the  latch  and  join  the  gossip 
knot  huddled  round  the  hearth,  beguiling  the  long  evening 
with  legendary  jokes  and  oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refinement  is 
the  havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holyday  cus- 
toms. It  has  completely  taken  off  the  sharp  touchings  and 
spirited  reliefs  of  these  embellishments  of  life,  and  has  worn/ 
down  society  into  a  more  smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly 
a  less  characteristic  surface.  Many  of  the  games  and  cere- 
monials of  Christmas  have  entirely  disappeared,  and,  like 
the  sherris  sack  of  old  Falstaff,  are  become  matters  of  specu- 
lation and  dispute  among  commentators.  They  flourished 
in  times  full  of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men  enjoyed  life 
roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigorously :  times  wild  and  pict- 
uresque, which  have  furnished  poetry  with  its  richest  mate- 
rials, and  the  drama  with  its  most  attractive  variety  of  char- 
acters and  manners.  The  world  has  become  more  worldly. 
There  is  more  of  dissipation  and  less  of  enjoyment.  Pleasure 
has  expanded  into  a  broader,  but  a  shallower  stream,  and 
has  forsaken  many  of  those  deep  and  quiet  channels,  where 
it  flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm  bosom  of  domestic  life. 
Society  has  acquired  a  more  enlightened  and  elegant  tone; 
but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong  local  peculiarities,  its  home- 
bred feelings,  its  honest  fireside  delights.  The  traditionary 
customs  of  golden-hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities, 


222  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii7<$toi> 

and  lordly  wassailings,  have  passed  away  with  the  baronial 
castles  and  stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were  cele- 
brated. They  comported  with  the  shadowy  hall,  the  great 
oaken  gallery,  and  the  tapestried  parlor,  but  are  unfitted  for 
the  light  showy  saloons  and  gay  drawing-rooms  of  the  mod- 
ern villa. 

•  Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  honors, 
I  Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement  in  Eng- 
land. It  is  gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  completely 
aroused  which  holds  so  powerful  -a  place  in  every  English 
bosom.  The  preparations  making  on  every  side  for  the 
social  board  that  is  again  to  unite  friends  and  kindred — the 
presents  of  good  cheer  passing  and  repassing,  those  tokens 
of  regard  and  quickeners  of  kind  feelings — the  evergreens 
distributed  about  houses  and  churches,  emblems  of  peace  and 
gladness — all  these  have  the  most  pleasing  effect  in  produc- 
ing fond  associations,  and  kindling  benevolent  sympathies. 
Even  the  sound  of  the  waits,  rude  as  -may  be  their  min- 
strelsy, breaks  upon  the  midwatches  of  a  winter  night  with 
the  effect  of  perfect  harmony.  As  I  have  been  awakened  by 
them  in  that  still  and  solemn  hour  "when  deep  sleep  falleth 
upon  man,"  I  have  listened  with  a  hushed  delight,  and  con- 
necting them  with  the  sacred  and  joyous  occasion,  have  al- 
most fancied  them  into  another  celestial  choir,  announcing 
peace  and  good-will  to  mankind.  How  delightfully  the  imag- 
ination, when  wrought  upon  by  these  moral  influences,  turns 
everything  to  melody  and  beauty!  The  very  crowing  of  the 
cock,  heard  sometimes  in  the  profound  repose  of  the  country, 
"telling  the  nightwatches  to  his  feathery  dames,"  was  thought 
by  the  common  people  to  announce  the  approach  of  the  sacred- 
festival  : 

"Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  was  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long: 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad; 
The  nights  are  wholesome — then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 


Jl?e  SKeteb-BooK  223 

Amid  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the 
spirits,  and  stir  of  the  affections,  which  prevail  at  this  period, 
what  bosom  can  remain  insensible?  It  is,  indeed,  the  season 
of  regenerated  feeling — the  season  for  kindling  not  merely 
the  fire  of  hospitality  in  the  hall,  but  the  genial  flame  of 
charity  in  the  heart.  The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises 
green  to  memory  beyond  the  sterile  waste  of  years,  and  the 
idea  of  home,  fraught  with  the  fragrance  of  home-dwelling 
joys,  reanimates  the  drooping  spirit — as  the  Arabian  breeze 
will  sometimes  waft  the  freshness  of  the  distant  fields  to  the 
weary  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land — though  for 
me  no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof  throw 
open  its  doors,  nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship  welcome  me 
at  the  threshold — yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the  season  beam- 
ing into  my  soul  from  the  happy  looks  of  those  around  me. 
Surely  happiness  is  reflective,  like  the  light  of  heaven ;  and 
every  countenance  bright  with  smiles,  and  glowing  with 
innocent  enjoyment,  is  a  mirror  transmitting  to  others  the 
rays  of  a  supreme  and  ever-shining  benevolence.  He  who 
can  turn  churlishly  away  from  contemplating  the  felicity  of 
his  fellow-beings,  and  can  sit  down  darkling  and  repining  in 
his  loneliness  when  all  around  is  joyful,  may  have  his  mo- 
ments of  strong  excitement  and  selfish  gratification,  but  he 
wants  the  genial  and  social  sympathies  which  constitute  the 
charm  of  a  merry  Christmas. 


224  U/orKs  of 


THE    STAGE-COACH 

"Omne  bend 

Sine  pcena 
Tern  pus  est  ludendi 

Venit  hora 

Absque  mord 
Libros  deponendi." 

— Old  Holyday  School  Song 

IN  the  preceding  paper,  I  have  made  some  general  ob- 
servations on  the  Christmas  festivities  of  England,  and  am 
tempted  to  illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christmas 
passed  in  the  country ;  in  perusing  which,  I  would  most 
courteously  invite  my  reader  to  lay  aside  the  austerity  of 
wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that  genuine  holyday  spirit  which  is 
tolerant  of  follv^and  a.nxious  only  for.  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,  I  rode  for 
a  long  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches,  on  the  day  pre- 
ceding Christmas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both  inside  and 
out,  with  passengers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed  principally 
bound  to  the  mansions  of  relations  or  friends  to  eat  the 
Christmas  dinner.  It  was  loaded  also  with  hampers  of 
game,  and  baskets  and  boxes  of  delicacies;  and  hares  hung 
dangling  their  long  ears  about  the  coachman's  box,  presents 
from  distant  friends  for  the  impending  feast.  I  had  three 
fine  rosy-cheeked  schoolboys  for  my  fellow-passengers  inside, 
full  of  the  buxom  health  and  manly  spirit  which  I  have  ob- 
served in  the  children  of  this  country.  They  were  returning 
home  for  the  holydays,  in  high  glee,  and  promising  them- 
selves a  world  of  enjoyment.  It  was  delightful  to  hear  the 
gigantic  plans  of  pleasure  of  the  little  rogues,  and  the  im- 
practicable feats  they  were  to  perform  during  their  six  weeks' 


225 

emancipation  from  the  abhorred  thralldom  of  book,  birch, 
and  pedagogue.  They  were  full  of  the  anticipations  of  the 
meeting  with  the  family  and  household,  down  to  the  very 
cat  and  dog ;  and  of  the  joy  they  were  to  give  their  little  sis- 
ters, by  the  presents  with  which  their  pockets  were  crammed ; 
but  the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed  to  look  forward  with 
the  greatest  impatience  was  with  Bantam,  which  I  found  to 
be  a  pony,  and,  according  to  their  talk,  possessed  of  more 
virtues  than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Bucephalus.  How 
he  could  trot !  how  he  could  run !  and  then  such  leaps  as  he 
would  take — there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  country  that 
he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the  coach- 
man, to  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented,  they  ad- 
dressed a  host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him  one  of  the 
best  fellows  in  the  whole  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but 
notice  the  more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle  and  importance 
of  the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  and 
had  a  large  bunch  of  Christmas  greens  stuck  in  the  button- 
hole of  his  coat.  He  is  always  a  personage  full  of  mighty 
care  and  business;  but  he  is  particularly  so  during  this  sea- 
son, having  so  many  commissions  to  execute  in  consequence 
of  the  great  interchange  of  presents.  And  here,  perhaps,  it 
may  not  be  unacceptable  to  my  untraveled  readers,  to  have 
a  sketch  that  may  serve  as  a  general  representation  of  this 
very  numerous  and  important  class  of  functionaries,  who 
have  a  dress,  a  manner,  a  language,  an  air,  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, and  prevalent  throughout  the  fraternity;  so  that, 
wherever  an  English  stage-coachman  may  be  seen,  he  can- 
not be  mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft  or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad  full  face,  curiously  mottled 
with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding 
into  every  vessel  of  the  skin ;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimen- 
sions by  frequent  potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his  bulk  is 
still  further  increased  by  a  multiplicity  of.  coats,  in  which  he 
is  buried  like  a  cauliflower,  the  upper  one  reaching  to  his 
heels.  He  wears  a  broad-brimmed  low-crowned  hat,  a  huge 


226  UVorKs  of  U/a8bii}$toi} 

roll  of  colored  handkerchief  about  his  neck,  knowingly 
knotted  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom;  and  has  in  summer- 
time a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his  buttonhole,  the  pres- 
ent, most  probably,  of  some  enamored  country  lass.  His 
waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright  color,  striped,  and  his 
smallclothes  extend  far  below  the  knees,  to  meet  a  pair  of 
jockey  boots  which  reach  about  half-way  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision ;  he 
has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  materials,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  seeming  grossness  of  his  appearance, 
there  is  still  discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety  of  person 
which  is  almost  inherent  in  an  Englishman.  He  enjoys 
great  consequence  and  consideration  along  the  road;  has 
frequent  conferences  with  the  village  housewives,  who  look 
upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  trust  and  dependence ;  and  he 
seems  to  have  a  good  understanding  with  every  bright- eyed 
country  lass.  The  moment  he  arrives  where  the  horses  are 
to  be  changed,  he  throws  down  the  reins  with  something  of 
'an  air,  and  abandons  the  cattle  to  the  care  of  the  hostler,  his 
duty  being  merely  to  drive  them  from  one  stage  to  another. 
When  off  the  box,  his  hands  are  thrust  in  the  pockets  of  his 
greatcoat,  and  he  rolls  about  the  inn -yard  with  an  air  of  the 
most  absolute  lordliness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded 
by  an  admiring  throng  of  hostlers,  stable-boys,  shoeblacks, 
and  those  nameless  hangers-on  that  infest  inns  and  taverns, 
and  run  errands,  and  do  all  kinds  of  odd  jobs,  for  the  privi- 
lege of  battening  on  the  drippings  of  the  kitchen  and  the 
leakage  of  the  tap-room.  These  all  look  up  to  him  as  to  an 
oracle;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases;  echo  his  opinions  about 
horses  and  other  topics  of  jockey  lore;  and,  above  all,  en- 
deavor to  imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every  ragamuffin 
that  has  a  coat  to  his  back,  thrusts  his  hands  in  the  pockets, 
rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  embryo  Coachey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  serenity  that 
reigned  in  my  own  mind  that  I  fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness 
in  every  countenance  throughout  the  journey.  A  Stage- 
Coach,  however,  carries  animation  always  with  it,  and  puts 


227 

the  world  in  motion  as  it  whirls  along.  The  horn,  sounded 
at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  produces  a  general  bustle.  Some 
hasten  forth  to  meet  friends ;  some  with  bundles  and  band- 
boxes to  secure  places,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  can 
hardly  take  leave  of  the  group  that  accompanies  them.  In 
the  meantime,  the  coachman  has  a  world  of  small  commis- 
sions to  execute ;  sometimes  he  delivers  a  hare  or  pheasant ; 
sometimes  jerks  a  small  parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of  a 
public  house ;  and  sometimes,  with  knowing  leer  and  words 
of  sly  import,  hands  to  some  half-blushing,  half-laughing 
housemaid  an  odd-shaped  billet-doux  from  some  rustic  ad- 
mirer. As  the  coach  rattles  through  the  village,  every  one 
runs  to  the  window,  and  you  have  glances  on  every  side  of 
fresh  country  faces,  and  blooming  giggling  girls.  At  the 
corners  are  assembled  juntos  of  village  idlers  and  wise  men, 
who  take  their  stations  there  for  the  important  purpose  of 
seeing  company  pass;  btit  the  sagest  knot  is  generally  at  the 
blacksmith's,  to  whom  the  passing  of  the  coach  is  an  event 
fruitful  of  much  speculation.  The  smith,  with  the  horse's 
heel  in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle  whirls  by ;  the  cy clops 
round  the  anvil  suspend  their  ringing  hammers,  and  suffer 
the  iron  to  grow  cool ;  and  the  sooty  specter  in  brown  paper 
cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on  the  handle  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  permits  the  asthmatic  engine  to  heave  a  long- 
drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares  through  the  murky  smoke  and 
sulphurous  gleams  of  the  smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holyday  might  have  given  a  more 
than  usual  animation  to  the  country,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  everybody  was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game, 
poultry,  and  other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  cir- 
culation in  the  villages ;  the  grocers,  butchers,  and  fruiterers' 
shops  were  thronged  with  customers.  The  housewives  were 
stirring  briskly  about,  putting  their  dwellings  in  order;  and 
the  glossy  branches  of  holly,  with  their  bright  red  berries, 
began  to  appear  at  the  windows.  The  scene  brought  to 
mind  an  old  writer's  account  of  Christmas  preparations. 
"Now  capons  and  hens,  besides  turkeys,  geese,  and  ducks, 


of 

with  beef  and  mutton — must  all  die — for  in  twelve  days  a 
multitude  of  people  will  not  be  fed  with  a  little.  Now  plums 
and  spice,  sugar  and  honey,  square  it  among  pies  and  broth. 
Now  or  never  must  music  be  in  tune,  for  the  youth  must 
dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a-heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the 
fire.  The  country  maid  leaves  half  her  market,  and  must  be 
sent  again,  if  she  forgets  a  pair  of  cards  on  Christmas  eve. 
Great  is  the  contention  of  Holly  and  Ivy,  whether  master  or 
dame  wears  the  breeches.  Dice  and  cards  benefit  the  butler; 
and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will  sweetly  lick  his 
fingers." 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation  by  a 
shout  from  my  little  traveling  companions.  They  had  been 
looking  out  of  the  coach- windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  rec- 
ognizing every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  approached  home, 
and  now  there  was  a  general  burst  of  joy— "There's  John! 
and  there's  old  Carlo!  and  there's  Bantam !"  cried  the  happy 
little  rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane  there  was  an  old  sober-looking  ser- 
vant in  livery  waiting  for  them;  he  was  accompanied  by  a 
superannuated  pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam, 
a  little  old  rat  of  a  pony,  with  a  shaggy  mane  and  long 
rusty  tail,  who  stood  dozing  quietly  by  the  roadside,  little 
dreaming  of  the  bustling  times  that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  little 
fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  and  hugged  the 
pointer,  who  wriggled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam 
was  'the  great  object  of  interest;  all  wanted  to  mount  at 
once,  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  John  arranged 
that  they  should  ride  by  turns,  and  the  eldest  should  ride 
first. 

Off  they  set  at  last ;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog  bound- 
ing and  barking  before  him,  and  the  others  holding  John's 
hands ;  both  talking  at  once  and  overpowering  him  with  ques- 
tions about  home,  and  with  school  anecdotes.  I  looked  after 
them  with  a  feeling  in  which  I  do  not  know  whether  pleasure 
or  melancholy  predominated ;  for  I  was  reminded  of  those 


fl?e  §Ketel?-BooK  229 

days  when,  like  them,  I  had  neither  known  care  nor  sorrow, 
and  a  holyday  was  the  summit  of  earthly  felicity.  We 
stopped  a  few  moments  afterward  to  water  the  horses;  and 
on  resuming  our  route,  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  in 
sight  of  a  neat  country-seat.  I  could  just  distinguish  the 
forms  of  a  lady  and  two  young  girls  in  the  portico,  and  I 
saw  my  little  comrades,  with  Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John, 
trooping  along  the  carriage  road.  I  leaned  out  of  the  coach- 
window,  in  hopes  of  witnessing  the  happy  meeting,  but  a 
grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I  had  deter- 
mined to  pass  the  night.  As  we  drove  into  the  great  gate- 
way of  the  inn,  I  saw,  on  one  side,  the  light  of  a  rousing 
kitchen  fire  beaming  through  a  window.  I  entered,  and  ad- 
mired, for  the  hundredth  time,  that  picture  of  convenience, 
neatness,  and  broad  honest  enjoyment,  the  kitchen  of  an 
English  inn.  It  was  of  spacious  dimensions,  hung  round 
Kvith  copper  and  tin  vessels  highly  polished,  and  decorated 
here  and  there  with  a  Christmas  green.  Hams,  tongues, 
and  flitches  of  bacon  were  suspended  from  the  ceiling;  a 
smoke-jack  made  its  ceaseless  clanking  beside  the  fireplace, 
and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  A  well-scoured  deal  table 
extended  along  one  side  of  the  kitchen,  with  a  cold  round  of 
beef  and  other  hearty  viands  upon  it,  over  which  two  foam- 
ing tankards  of  ale  seemed  mounting  guard.  Travelers  of 
inferior  order  were  preparing  to  attack  this  stout  repast, 
while  others  sat  smoking  and  gossiping  over  their  ale  on  two 
high-backed  oaken  settles  beside  the  fire.  Trim  housemaids 
were  hurrying  backward  and  forward,  under  the  directions 
of  a  fresh  bustling  landlady ;  but  still  seizing  an  occasional 
moment  to  exchange  a  flippant  word,  and  have  a  rallying 
laugh,  with  the  group  round  the  fire.  The  scene  completely 
realized  Poor  Robin's  humble  idea  of  the  comforts  of  mid- 
winter : 

'  "Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair; 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 


230  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii}$too 

A  pot  of  ale  and  now  a  toast. 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require.".* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn,  when  a  post-chaise  drove 
up  to  the  door.  A  young  gentleman  stepped  out,  and  by  the 
light  of  the  lamps  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance  which 
I  thought  I  knew.  I  moved  forward  to  get  a  nearer  view, 
when  his  eye  caught  mine.  I  was  not  mistaken;  it  was 
Frank  Bracebridge,  a  sprightly  good-humored  young  fellow, 
with  whom  I  had  once  traveled  on  the  Continent.  Our 
meeting  was  extremely  cordial,  for  the  countenance  of  an 
old  fellow-traveler  always  brings  up  the  recollection  of  a 
thousand  pleasant  scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excellent 
jokes.  To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  interview  at  an 
inn  was  impossible ;  and  finding  that  I  was  not  pressed  for 
time,  and  was  merely  making  a  tour  of  observation,  he  in- 
sisted that  I  should  give  him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's 
country-seat,  to  which  he  was  going  to  pass  the  holy  days, 
and  which  lay  at  a  few  miles'  distance.  "It  is  better  than 
eating  a  solitary  Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he,  "and 
I  can  assure  you  of  a  hearty  welcome,  in  something  of 
the  old-fashioned  style."  His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and  I 
must  confess  the  preparation  I  had  seen  for  universal  festiv- 
ity and  social  enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a  little  impatient 
of  my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefore,  at  once,  with  his  in- 
vitation; the  chaise  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  in  a  few 
moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  family  mansion  of  the 
Bracebridges. 

*  Poor  Robin's  Almanack,  1694. 


231 


CHRISTMAS    EVE 

"Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 

Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight; 

From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 

That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin; 

Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 

Fairies,  weazles,  rats,  and  ferrets: 
From  curfew-time 
To  the  next  prime." — CARTWRIGHT 

IT  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely  cold; 
our  chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen  ground;  the  post- 
boy smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his 
horses  were  on  a  gallop.  "He  knows  where  he  is  going," 
said  my  companion,  laughing,  "and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time 
for  some  of  the  merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants' 
hall.  My  father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the 
old  school,  and  prides  himself  upon  keeping  up  something  of 
old  English  hospitality.  He  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  what 
you  will  rarely  meet  with  nowadays  in  its  purity — the  old 
English  country  gentleman ;  for  our  men  of  fortune  spend  so 
much  of  their  time  in  town,  and  fashion  is  carried  so  much 
into  the  country,  that  the  strong  rich  peculiarities  of  ancient 
rural  life  are  almost  polished  away.  My  father,  however, 
from  early  years,  took  honest  Peacham  *  for  his  text-book, 
instead  of  Chesterfield;  he  determined  in  his  own  mind  that 
there  was  no  condition  more  truly  honorable  and  enviable 
than  that  of  a  country  gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands,  and, 
therefore,  passes  the  whole  of  his  tune  on  his  estate.  He  is 
a  strenuous  advocate  for  the  revival  of  the  old  rural  games 
and  holyday  observances,  and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers, 

*  Peacham's  "Complete  Gentleman,"  1622. 


of  U/asl?ir><}tor?  Iruii?<? 

ancient  and  modern,  who  have  treated  on  the  subject.  In- 
deed, his  favorite  range  of  reading  is  among  the  authors  who 
flourished  at  least  two  centuries  since ;  who,  he  insists,  wrote 
and  thought  more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of  their 
successors.  He  even  regrets  sometimes  that  he  had  not  been 
born  a  few  centuries  earlier,  when  England  was  itself,  and 
had  its  peculiar  manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives  at  some 
distance  from  the  main  road,  in  rather  a  lonely  part  of  the 
country,  without  any  rival  gentry  near  him,  he  has  that 
most  enviable  of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishman,  an  opportu- 
nity of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without  molesta- 
tion. Being  representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  tenants, 
he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known  simply 
by  the  appellation  of 'The  Squire';  a  title  which  has  been 
accorded  to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time  immemorial. 
I  think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my  worthy  old 
father,  to  prepare  you  for  any  little  eccentricities  that  might 
otherwise  appear  absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a  park, 
and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  in  a 
heavy  magnificent  old  style  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought 
at  top  into  flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge  square  columns 
that  supported  the  gate  were  surmounted  by  the  family  crest. 
Close  adjoining  was  the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark 
fir  trees,  and  almost  buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  resounded 
through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  answered  by  the  distant 
barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed  gar- 
risoned. An  old  woman  immediately  appeared  at  the  gate. 
As  the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view 
of  a  little  primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in  antique 
taste,  with  a  neat  kerchief  and  stomacher,  and  her  silver 
hair  peeping  from  under  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness.  She 
came  courtesying  forth  with  many  expressions  of  simple 
joy  at  seeing  her  young  master.  Her  husband,  it  seemed, 
was  up  at  the  house,  keeping  Christmas  eve  in  the  servants' 


JI?e  8ketol?-BooK  233 

hall ;  they  could  not  do  without  him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand 
at  a  song  and  story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight,  and  walk 
through  the  park  to  the  Hall,  which  was  at  no  great  dis- 
tance, while  the  chaise  should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound 
through  a  noble  avenue  of  trees,  among  the  naked  branches 
of  which  the  moon  glittered  as  she  rolled  through  the  deep 
vault  of  a  cloudless  sky.  The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with 
a  slight  covering  of  snow,  which  here  and  there  sparkled  as 
the  moonbeams  caught  a  frosty  crystal;  and  at  a  distance 
might  be  seen  a  thin  transparent  vapor,  stealing  up  from 
the  low  grounds,  and  threatening  gradually  to  shroud  the 
landscape. 

My  companion  looked  round  him  with  transport — "How 
often,"  said  he,  "have  I  scampered  up  this  avenue,  on  re- 
turning home  on  school  vacations !     How  often  have  I  played 
under  these  trees  when  a  boy !     I  feel  a  degree  of  filial  rever- 
ence for  them,  as  we  look  up  to  those  who  have  cherished  us 
in  childhood.     My  father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting 
our  holydays,  and  having  us  around  him  on  family  festivals. 
He  used  to  direct  and  superintend  our  games  with  the  strict- 
ness that  some  parents  do  the  studies  of  their  children.     He 
was  very  particular  that  we  should  play  the  old  English 
games  according  to  their  original  form ;   and  consulted  old 
books  for  precedent  and  authority  for  every  'merrie  disport'; 
yet,  I  assure  you,  there  never  was  pedantry  so  delightful.  -\ 
It  was  the  policy  of  the  good  old  gentleman  to  make  his  chil-  / 
dren  feel  that  home  was  the  happiest  place  in  the  world,  and  V 
I  value  this  delicious  home-feeling  as  one  of  the  choicest  gifts    \ 
a  parent  could  bestow." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs  of 
all  sorts  and  sizes,  "mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound,  and 
curs  of  low  degree"  that,  disturbed  by  the  ringing  of  the 
porter's  bell  and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding 
open-mouthed  across  the  lawn. 

«.'  '—The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me!'  " 


234  U/orks  of  U/asbii><$tor) 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a  moment 
he  was  surrounded  and  almost  overpowered  by  the  caresses 
of  the  faithful  animals. 

"We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  man- 
sion, partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lighted  up 
by  the  cold  moonshine.  It  was  an  irregular  building  of 
some  magnitude,  and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of 
different  periods.  One  wing  was  evidently  very  ancient, 
with  heavy  stone-shafted  bow  windows  jutting  out  and  over- 
run with  ivy,  from  among  the  foliage  of  which  the  small  dia- 
mond-shaped panes  of  glass  glittered  with  the  moonbeams. 
The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  the  French  taste  of  Charles  the 
Second's  time,  having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my  friend 
told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned  with  that 
monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The  grounds  about  the  house 
were  laid  out  in  the  old  formal  manner  of  artificial  flower- 
beds, clipped  shrubberies,  raised  terraces,  and  heavy  stone 
balustrades,  ornamented  with  urns,  a  leaden  statue  or  two, 
and  a  jet  of  water.  The  old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was  ex- 
tremely careful  to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its  orig- 
inal state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in  gardening;  it  had  an 
air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and  befitting 
good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  nature  and 
modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with  modern  republican 
notions,  but  did  not  suit  a  monarchical  government — it 
smacked  of  the  leveling  system.  I  could  not  help  smiling 
at  this  introduction  of  politics  into  gardening,  though  I  ex- 
pressed some  apprehension  that  I  should  find  the  old  gentle- 
man rather  intolerant  in  his  creed.  Frank  assured  me,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  almost  the  only  instance  in  which  he  had 
ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with  politics;  and  he  believed 
he  had  got  this  notion  from  a  member  of  Parliament,  who 
once  passed  a  few  weeks  with  him.  The  Squire  was  glad 
of  any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped  yew  trees  and  formal 
terraces,  which  had  been  occasionally  attacked  by  modern 
landscape  gardeners. 


235 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of 
music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one  end 
of  the  building.  This,  Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from 
the  servants'  hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was  per- 
mitted, and  even  encouraged,  by  the  Squire,  throughout  the 
twelve  days  of  Christmas,  provided  everything  was  done 
conformably  to  ancient  usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old 
games  of  hoodman  blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cockles, 
steal  the  white  loaf,  bob-apple,  and  snap-dragon;  the  Yule 
clog,  and  Christmas  candle,  were  regularly  burned,  and  the 
mistletoe,  with  its  white  berries,  hung  up,  to  the  imminent 
peril  of  all  the  pretty  housemaids.* 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports  that  we  had 
to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselves  heard.  On 
our  arrival  being  announced,  the  Squire  came  out  to  receive 
us,  accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons ;  one  a  young  officer 
in  the  army,  home  on  leave  of  absence ;  the  other  an  Oxonian, 
just  from  the  university.  The  Squire  was  a  fine  healthy- 
looking  old  gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round 
an  open  florid  countenance;  in  which  a  physiognomist,  with 
the  advantage,  like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might 
discover  a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and  benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate ;  as  the 
evening  was  far  advanced,  the  Squire  would  not  permit  us 
to  change  our  traveling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to 
the  company,  which  was  assembled  in  a  large  old-fashioned 
hall.  It  was  composed  of  different  branches  of  a  numerous 
family  connection,  where  there  were  the  usual  proportions  of 
old  uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable  married  dames,  super- 
annuated spinsters,  blooming  country  cousins,  half-fledged 
striplings,  and  bright-eyed  boarding-school  hoydens.  They 
were  variously  occupied;  some  at  a  round  game  of  cards; 
others  conversing  round  the  fireplace ;  at  one  end  of  the  hall 

*  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung-  up  in  farmhouses  and  kitchens,  at 
Christmas;  and  the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  the  girls 
under  it,  plucking  each  time  a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries 
are  all  plucked,  the  privilege  ceases. 


236  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip<$toi> 

was  a  group  of  the  young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  up,  others 
of  a  more  tender  and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed  by  a  merry 
game;  and  a  profusion  of  wooden  horses,  penny  trumpets, 
and  tattered  dolls  about  the  floor,  showed  traces  of  a  troop 
of  little  fairy  beings,  who,  having  frolicked  through  a  happy 
day,  had  been  carried  off  to  slumber  through  a  peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between  young 
Bracebridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  tune  to  scan  the  apart- 
ment. I  have  called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in 
old  times,  and  the  Squire  had  evidently  endeavored  to  re- 
store it  to  something  of  its  primitive  state.  Over  the  heavy 
projecting  fireplace  was  suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in 
armor,  standing  by  a  white  horse,  and  on  the  opposite  wall 
hung  &  helmet,  buckler,  and  lance.  At  one  end  an  enor- 
mous pair  of  Antlers  were  inserted  in  the  wall,  the  branches 
serving  as  hooks  on  which  to  suspend  hats,  whips,  and  spurs ; 
and  hi  the  corners  of  the  apartment  were  fowling-pieces,  fish- 
ing-rods, and  other  sporting  implements.  The  furniture  was 
of  the  cumbrous  workmanship  of  former  days,  though  some 
articles  of  modern  convenience  had  been  added,  and  the 
oaken  floor  had  been  carpeted ;  so  that  the  whole  presented 
an  odd  mixture  of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide  overwhelm- 
ing fireplace,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst  of 
which  was  an  enormous  log,  glowing  and  blazing,  and  send- 
ing forth  a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat ;  this  I  understood 
was  the  yule  clog,  which  the  Squire  was  particular  in  hav- 
ing brought  in  and  illumined  on  a  Christmas  eve,  according 
to  ancient  custom.* 

*  The  yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root  of  a  tree, 
brought  into  the  house  with  great  ceremony  on  Christmas  eve,  laid  in 
the  fireplace,  and  lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it 
lasted,  there  was  great  drinking,  singing,  and  telling  of  tales.  Some- 
times it  was  accompanied  by  Christmas  candles;  but  in  the  cottages, 
the  only  light  was  from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.  The 
yule  clog  was  to  burn  all  night;  if  it  went  out,  it  was  considered  a  sign 
of  ill  luck. 

Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs: 


The  SKeteb-BooK  237 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  Squire,  seated  in 
his  hereditary  elbow-chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of  his 
ancestors,  and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system, 
beaming  warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the 
very  dog  that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted 
his  position  and  yawned,  would  look  fondly  up  in  his  mas- 
ter's face,  wag  his  tail  against  the  floor,  and  stretch  himself 
again  to  sleep,  confident  of  kindness  and  protection.  There 
is  an  emanation  from  the  heart  in  genuine  hospitality  which 
cannot  be  described,  but  is  immediately  felt,  and  puts  the 
stranger  at  once  at  his  ease.  I  had  not  been  seated  many 
minutes  by  the  comfortable  hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cavalier, 
before  I  found  myself  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one 
of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It  was 
served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels  of  which 
shone  with  wax,  and  around  which  were  several  family  por- 
traits decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Besides  the  accustomed 
lights,  two  great  wax  tapers,  called  Christmas  candles, 
wreathed  with  greens,  were  placed  on  a  highly  polished 
beaufet  among  the  family  plate.  The  table  was  abundantly 
spread  with  substantial  fare ;  but  the  Squire  made  his  sup- 
per of  frumenty,  a  dish  made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in  milk 
with  rich  spices,  being  a  standing  dish  in  old  times  for  Christ- 
mas eve.  I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,  in 


"  Come  bring  with  a  noise, 
My  merrie,  merrie  boys, 

The  Christmas  Log  to  the  firing; 
While  my  good  dame  she 
Bids  ye  all  be  free, 

And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring." 

The  yule  clog  is  still  burned  in  many  farmhouses  and  kitchens  in 
England,  particularly  in  the  north;  and  there  are  several  superstitions 
connected  with  it  among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come 
to  the  house  while  it  is  burning,  or  a  person  barefooted,  it  is  considered 
an  ill  omen.  The  brand  remaining  from  the  yule  clog  is  carefully  put 
away  to  light  the  next  year's  Christmas  fire. 


238  U/orl^s  of 

the  retinue  of  the  feast;  and  finding  him  to  be  perfectly  or- 
thodox, and  that  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  predilection, 
I  greeted  him  with  all  the  warmth  wherewith  we  usually 
greet  an  old  and  very  genteel  acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by  the 
humors  of  an  eccentric  personage,  whom  Mr.  Bracebridge 
always  addressed  with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Master 
i  Simon.  He  was  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of 
an  arrant  old  bachelor.  His  nose  was  shaped  like  the  bill 
of  a  parrot ;  his  face  slightly  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  with 
a  dry  perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like  a  frost-bitten  leaf  in  autumn. 
He  had  an  eye  of  great  quickness  and  vivacity,  with  a  droll- 
ery and  lurking  waggery  of  expression  that  was  irresistible. 
He  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family,  dealing  very  much 
in  sly  jokes  and  innuendoes  with  the  ladies,  and  making  in- 
finite merriment  by  harpings  upon  old  themes;  which,  un- 
fortunately, my  ignorance  of  the  family  chronicles  did  not 
permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to  be  his  great  delight,  dur- 
ing supper,  to  keep  a  young  girl  next  him  in  a  continual 
agony  of  stifled  laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the  reprov- 
ing looks  of  her  mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was 
the  idol  of  the  younger  part  of  the  company,  who  laughed  at 
everything  he  said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn  of  his  counte- 
nance. I  could  not  wonder  at  it ;  for  he  must  have  been  a 
miracle  of  accomplishments  in  their  eyes.  He  could  imitate 
Punch  and  Judy ;  make  an  old  woman  of  his  hand,  with  the 
assistance  of  a  burned  cork  and  pocket-handkerchief;  and 
cut  an  orange  into  such  a  ludicrous  caricature  that  the  young 
folks  were  ready  to  die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Bracebridge. 
He  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small  independent  income, 
which,  by  careful  management,  was  sufficient  for  all  his 
wants.  He  revolved  through  the  family  system  like  a  va- 
grant comet  in  its  orbit,  sometimes  visiting  one  branch,  and 
sometimes  another  quite  remote,  as  is  often  the  case  with 
gentlemen  of  extensive  connections  and  small  fortunes  in 
England.  He  had  a  chirping,  buoyant  disposition,  always 


239 

enjoying  the  present  moment ;  and  his  frequent  change  of 
scene  and  company  prevented  his  acquiring  those  rusty, 
unaccommodating  habits  with  which  old  bachelors  are  so 
uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete  family  chronicle, 
being  versed  in  the  genealogy,  history,  and  intermarriages 
of  the  whole  house  of  Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a  great 
favorite  with  the  old  folks ;  he  was  a  beau  of  all  the  elder 
ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters,  among  whom  he  was 
habitually  considered  rather  a  young  fellow,  and  he  was 
master  of  the  revels  among  the  children;  so  that  there 
was  not  a  more  popular  being  in  the  sphere  in  which  he 
moved  than  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge.  Of  late  years  he  had 
resided  almost  entirely  with  the  Squire,  to  whom  he  had 
become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he  particularly  delighted  by 
jumping  with  his  humor  in  respect  to  old  times,  and  by  hav- 
ing a  scrap  of  an  old  song  to  suit  every  occasion.  We  had 
presently  a  specimen  of  his  last -mentioned  talent;  for  no 
sooner  was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines  and  other 
beverages  peculiar  to  the  season  introduced,  than  Master 
Simon  was  called  on  for  a  good  old  Christmas  song.  He 
bethought  himself  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sparkle 
of  the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no  means  bad,  except- 
ing that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a  falsetto,  like  the  notes  of 
a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth  a  quaint  old  ditty : 

JL         J~ 

•'Now  Christmas  is  come, 
Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together;         ' 


And  when  they  appear,  bn/i\  **       -^ 

Let  us  make  such  a  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather," 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an  old 
harper  was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall,  where  he  had 
been  strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  com- 
forting himself  with  some  of  the  Squire's  home-brewed.  He 
was  a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  establishment, 
and  though  ostensibly  a  resident  of  the  village,  was  oftener 


240  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)$toi?  Iruii><? 

to  be  found  in  the  Squire's  kitchen  than  his  own  home ;  the 
old  gentleman  being  fond  of  the  sound  of  "Harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  merry 
one:  some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  Squire 
himself  figured  down  several  couple  with  a  partner  with 
whom  he  affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every  Christmas  for 
nearly  half  a  century.  Master  Simon,  who  seemed  to  be  a 
kind  of  connecting  link  between  the  old  times  and  the  new, 
and  to  be  withal  a  little  antiquated  in  the  taste  of  his  accom- 
plishments, evidently  piqued  himself  on  his  dancing,  and  was 
endeavoring  to  gain  credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon, 
and  other  graces  of  the  ancient  school;  but  he  had  unluckily 
assorted  himself  with  a  little  romping  girl  from  boarding- 
school,  who,  by  her  wild  vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on 
the  stretch,  and  defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at  elegance : 
— such  are  the  ill-sorted  matches  to  which  antique  gentlemen 
are  unfortunately  prone ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one  of 
his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a  thousand  lit- 
tle knaveries  with  impunity ;  he  was  full  of  practical  jokes, 
and  his  delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousins ;  yet,  like 
all  madcap  youngsters,  he  was  a  universal  favoiite  among 
the  women.  The  most  interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was 
the  young  officer  and  a  ward  of  the  Squire's,  a  beautiful 
blushing  girl  of  seventeen.  From  several  shy  glances  which 
I  had  noticed  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  suspected  there 
was  a  little  kindness  growing  up  between  them;  and,  in- 
deed, the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero  to  captivate  a  ro- 
mantic girl.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and  handsome ;  and,  like 
most  young  British  officers  of  late  years,  had  picked  up  vari- 
ous small  accomplishments  on  the  Continent — he  could  talk 
French  and  Italian — draw  landscapes — sing  very  tolerably 
— dance  divinely ;  but,  above  all,  he  had  been  wounded  at 
Waterloo : — what  girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in  poetry  and 
romance,  could  resist  such  a  mirror  of  chivalry  and  perfec- 
tion? 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over  he  caught  up  a  guitar, 


241 

And  lolling  against  the  old  marble  fireplace,  in  an  attitude 
which  I  am  half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied,  began  the 
little  French  air  of  the  Troubadour.  The  Squire,  however, 
exclaimed  against  having  anything  on  Christmas  eve  but 
good  old  English;  upon  which  the  young  minstrel,  casting 
up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as  if  an  effort  of  memory,  struck 
into  another  strain,  and,  with  a  charming  air  of  gallantry, 
gave  Herrick's  "Night-Piece  to  Julia." 

"Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

"No  Will-o'-the-Wisp  tnislight  thee; 
Nor  snake  or  slow-worm  bite  thee; 
But  on,  on  thy  way, 
Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

"Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber, 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

"Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me: 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee." 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  intended  in  com- 
pliment to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner  was 
called ;  she,  however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such 
application ;  for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her 
eyes  cast  upon  the  floor;  her  face  was  soused,  it  is  true, 
with  a  beautiful  blush,  and  there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of 
the  bosom,  but  all  that  was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exercise 
of  the  dance :  indeed,  so  great  was  her  indifference  that  she 
was  amusing  herself  with  plucking  to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet 
***ll  VOL.  I. 


242  UYorKe  of  U/asl?ir)<$toJ7 

of  hothouse  flowers,  and  by  the  time  the  song  was  concluded 
the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with  the  kind- 
hearted  old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed  through 
the  hall  on  my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the 
yule  clog  still  sent  forth  a  dusky  glow;  and  had  it  not  been 
the  season  when  "no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad,"  I  should  have 
been  half  tempted  to  steal  from  my  room  at  midnight,  and 
peep  whether  the  fairies  might  not  be  at  their  revels  about 
the  hearth. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the  pon- 
derous furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated  in  the 
days  of  the  giants.  The  room  was  paneled  with  cornices  of 
heavy  carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  grotesque  faces 
were  strangely  intermingled,  and  a  row  of  black-looking  por- 
traits stared  mournfully  at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was 
of  rich,  though  faded  damask,  with  a  lofty  tester,  and  stood 
in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow- window.  I  had  scarcely  got  into 
bed  when  a  strain  of  music  seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air 
just  below  the  window :  I  listened,  and  found  it  proceeded 
from  a  band,  which  I  concluded  to  be  the  waits  from  some 
neighboring  village.  They  went  round  the  house,  playing 
under  the  windows.  I  drew  aside  the  curtains  to  hear  them 
more  distinctly.  The  moonbeams  fell  through  the  upper 
part  of  the  casement,  partially  lighting  up  the  antiquated 
apartment.  The  sounds,  as  they  receded,  became  more  soft 
-and  aerial,  and  seemed  to  accord  with  quiet  and  moonlight. 
I  listened  and  listened — they  became  more  and  more  tender 
and  remote,  and,  as  they  gradually  died  away,  my  head  sunk 
upon  the  pillow,  and  I  fell  asleep. 


THE    CHURCH    CHOIR. 

Irving,  Vol.  One,  p.  242. 


243 


CHRISTMAS    DAY 

"Dark  and  dull  night  flie  hence  away 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  May. 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morne 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  a  sudden? — come  and  see 
The  cause,  why  things  thus  fragrant  be." 
— HERRICK 

WHEN  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the 
events  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  a  dream,  and  noth- 
ing but  the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced  me  of 
their  reality.  "While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow,  I  heard  the 
sound  of  little  feet  pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whis- 
pering consultation.  Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted 
forth  an  old  Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was — 

"Rejoice,  our  Saviour  He  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning." 

I  rose  softly,  slipped  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  sud- 
denly, and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy  groups 
that  a  painter  could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two 
girls,  the  eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely  as  seraphs., 
They  were  going  the  rounds  of  the  house,  singing  at  every 
chamber  door,  but  my  sudden  appearance  frightened  them 
into  mute  bashfulness.  They  remained  for  a  moment  play- 
ing on  their  lips  with  their  fingers,  and  now  and  then  steal- 
ing a  shy  glance  from  under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as  if  by 
one  impulse,  they  scampered  away,  and  as  they  turned  an 
angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them  laughing  in  triumph  at 
their  escape. 


244  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip<$toi)  Iruir?<? 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feelings, 
in  this  stronghold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality.  The  window 
of  my  chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer  would  have 
been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a  sloping  lawn,  a 
fine  stream  winding  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  a  tract  of  park  be- 
yond, with  noble  clumps  of  trees  and  herds  of  deer.  At  a 
distance  was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the  smoke  from  the  cottage 
chimneys  hanging  over  it;  and  a  church,  with  its  dark  spire 
in  strong  relief  against  the  clear  cold  sky.  The  house  was 
surrounded  with  evergreens,  according  to  the  English  cus- 
tom, which  would  have  given  almost  an  appearance  of  sum- 
mer ;  but  the  morning  was  extremely  frosty ;  the  light  vapor 
of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  precipitated  by  the  cold, 
and  covered  all  the  trees  and  every  blade  of  grass  with  its 
fine  crystallizations.  The  rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun  had 
a  dazzling  effect  among  the  glittering  foliage.  A  robin, 
perched  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain  ash  that  hung  its  clus- 
ters of  red  berries  just  before  my  window,  was  basking  him- 
self in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  querulous  notes;  and 
a  peacock  was  displaying  all  the  glories  of  his  train,  and 
strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanish  grandee 
on  the  terrace -walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  appeared 
to  invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed  me  the  way  to 
a  small  chapel  in  the  old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found 
the  principal  part  of  the  family  already  assembled  in  a  kind 
of  gallery,  furnished  with  cushions,  hassocks,  and  large 
prayer-books;  the  servants  were  seated  on  benches  below. 
The  old  gentleman  read  prayers  from  a  desk  in  front  of  the 
gallery,  and  Master  Simon  acted  as  clerk  and  made  the  re- 
sponses; and  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he 
acquitted  himself  with  great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol  which 
Mr.  Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a  poem  of 
his  favorite  author,  Herrick;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to 
a  church  melody  by  Master  Simon.  As  there  were  several 
good  voices  among  the  household,  the  effect  was  extremely 


Tl?e  Sketel?-BooK  245 

pleasing ;  but  I  was  particularly  gratified  by  the  exaltation 
of  heart,  and  sudden  sally  of  grateful  feeling,  with  which 
the  worthy  Squire  delivered  one  stanza;  his  eye  glistening, 
and  his  voice  rambling  out  of  all  the  bounds  of  time  and  tune : 

"  Tis  Thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 
Spic'd  to  the  brink: 

"Lord,  'tis  Thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land: 

And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twice  ten  for  one." 

I  afterward  understood  that  early  morning  service  was 
read  on  every  Sunday  and  saint's  day  throughout  the  year, 
either  by  Mr.  Bracebridge  or  some  member  of  the  family.  It 
was  once  almost  universally  the  case  at  the  seats  of  the  no- 
bility and  gentry  of  England,  and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted 
that  the  custom  is  falling  into  neglect ;  for  the  dullest  ob- 
server must  be  sensible  of  the  order  and  serenity  prevalent  in 
those  households  where  the  occasional  exercise  of  a  beauti- 
ful form  of  worship  in  the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the 
keynote  to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and  attunes  every 
spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  Squire  denominated  v 
true  old  English  fare.  He  indulged  in  some  bitter  lamenta- 
tions over  modern  breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  he  cen- 
sured as  among  the  causes  of  modern  effeminacy  and  weak 
nerves,  and  the  decline  of  old  English  heartiness ;  and  though 
he  admitted  them  to  his  table  to  suit  the  palates  of  his  guests, 
yet  there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold  meats,  wine,  and  ale, 
on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast,  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,'  or  Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was 
called  by  everybody  but  the  Squire.  We  were  escorted  by  a 
number  of  gentlemen-like  dogs  that  seemed  loungers  about 
the  establishment;  from  the  frisking  spaniel  to  the  steady 
old  stag-hound — the  last  of  which  was  of  a  race  that  had 


246  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii}<$toi)  Iruii)<$ 

been  in  the  family  time  out  of  mind — they  were  all  obedient 
to  a  dog-whistle  which  hung  to  Master  Simon's  buttonhole, 
and  in  the  midst  of  their  gambols  would  glance  an  eye  occa- 
sionally upon  a  small  switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in  the 
yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight ;  and  I  could  not  but 
feel  the  force  of  the  Squire's  idea  that  the  formal  terraces, 
heavily  molded  balustrades,  and  clipped  yew  trees,  carried 
with  them  an  air  of  proud  aristocracy. 

There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  number  of  peacocks 
about  the  place,  and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon  what 
I  termed  a  flock  of  them  that  were  basking  under  a  sunny 
wall,  when  I  was  gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology  by 
Master  Simon,  who  told  me  that  according  to  the  most  an- 
cient and  approved  treatise  on  hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster 
of  peacocks.  "In  the  same  way,"  added  he,  with  a  slight 
air  of  pedantry,  "we  say  a  flight  of  doves  or  swallows,  a 
bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer,  of  wrens,  or  cranes,  a  skulk 
of  foxes,  or  a  building  of  rooks. ' '  He  went  on  to  inform  me 
that,  according  to  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert,  we  ought  to 
ascribe  to  this  bird  "both  understanding  and  glory;  for,  be- 
ing praised,  he  will  presently  set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against 
the  sun,  to  the  intent  you  may  the  better  behold  the  beauty 
thereof.  But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  when  his  tail  falleth, 
he  will  mourn  and  hide  himself  in  corners,  till  his  tail  come 
again  as  it  was. ' ' 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small  erudition 
on  so  whimsical  a  subject ;  but  I  found  that  the  peacocks 
were  birds  of  some  consequence  at  the  Hall;  for  Frank 
Bracebridge  informed  me  that  they  were  great  favorites 
with  his  father,  who  was  extremely  careful  to  keep  up  the 
breed,  partly  because  they  belonged  to  chivalry,  and  were  in 
great  request  at  the  stately  banquets  of  the  olden  time ;  and 
partly  because  they  had  a  pomp  and  magnificence  about 
them  highly  becoming  an  old  family  mansion.  Nothing,  he 
was  accustomed  to  say,  had  an  air  of  greater  state  and  dig- 
nity than  a  peacock  perched  upon  an  antique  stone  balustrade. 


247 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an  appoint- 
ment at  the  parish  church  with  the  village  choristers,  who 
were  to  perform  some  music  of  his  selection.  There  was 
something  extremely  agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of  ani- 
mal spirits  of  the  little  man ;  and  I  confess  I  had  been  some- 
what surprised  at  his  apt  quotations  from  authors  who  cer- 
tainly were  not  in  the  range  of  every-day  reading.  I 
mentioned  this  last  circumstance  to  Frank  Bracebridge, 
who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master  Simon's  whole 
stock  of  erudition  was  confined  to  some  half  a  dozen  old 
authors,  which  the  Squire  had  put  into  his  hands,  and  which 
he  read  over  and  over,  whenever  he  had  a  studious  fit;  as 
he  sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day  or  a  long  winter  evening. 
Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's  "Book  of  Husbandry";  Mark- 
ham's  "Country  Contentments";  the  "Tretyse  of  Hunt- 
ing," by  Sir  Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight;  Isaac  Walton's 
"Angler,"  and  two  or  three  more  such  ancient  worthies  of 
the  pen,  were  his  standard  authorities;  and,  like  all  men  who 
know  but  a  few  books,  he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of 
idolatry,  and  quoted  them  on  all  occasions.  As  to  his  songs, 
they  were  chiefly  picked  out  of  old  books  in  the  Squire's  li- 
brary, and  adapted  to  tunes  that  were  popular  among  the 
choice  spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  application 
of  scraps  of  literature,  however,  had  caused  him  to  be  looked 
upon  as  a  prodigy  of  book-knowledge  by  all  the  grooms, 
huntsmen,  and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood. 

While  we  were  talking,  we  heard  the  distant  toll  of  the 
village  bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  Squire  was  a  little  par- 
ticular in  having  his  household  at  church  on  a  Christmas 
morning ;  considering  it  a  day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks  and 
rejoicing;  for,  as  old  Tusser  observed — 

"At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal, 
And  feast  thy  poor  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small." 

"If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  "I  can  promise  you  a  specimen  of  my  cousin  Simon's 
musical  achievements.  As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an 


248  U/orks  of  U7asl?ii?<$toi}  Iruii?$ 

organ,  he  has  formed  a  band  from  the  village  amateurs,  and 
established  a  musical  club  for  their  improvement;  he  has 
also  sorted  a  choir,  as  he  sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds, 
according  to  the  directions  of  Jervaise  Markbam,  in  his 
'Country  Contentments';  for  the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all 
the  'deep,  solemn  mouths,'  and  for  the  tenor  the  'loud  ring- 
ing mouth,'  among  the  country  bumpkins;  and  for  'sweet 
mouths,'  he  has  culled  with  curious  taste  among  the  prettiest 
lasses  in  the  neighborhood;  though  these  last,  he  affirms, 
are  the  most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune;  your  pretty  female 
singer  being  exceedingly  wayward  and  capricious,  and  very 
liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remarkably  fine  and 
clear,  the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church,  which  was 
a  very  old  building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  near  a  village, 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  park  gate.  Adjoining  it  was  a 
low  snug  parsonage,  which  seemed  coeval  with  the  church. 
The  front  of  it  was  perfectly  matted  with  a  yew  tree  that 
had  been  trained  against  its  walls,  through  the  dense  foliage 
of  which  apertures  had  been  formed  to  admit  light  into  the 
small  antique  lattices.  As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest, 
the  parson  issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek  well- conditioned  pastor,  such 
as  is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a  rich  pa- 
tron's table,  but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson  was  a  lit- 
tle, meager,  black-looking  man,  with  a  grizzled  wig  that  was 
too  wide,  and  stood  off  from  each  ear;  so  that  his  head 
seemed  to  have  shrunk  away  within  it,  like  a  dried  filbert 
in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty  coat,  with  great  skirts,  and 
pockets  that  would  have  held  the  church  Bible  and  prayer- 
book:  and  his  small  legs  seemed  still  smaller,  from  being 
planted  in  large  shoes,  decorated  with  enormous  buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge  that  the  parson 
had  been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,  and  had  received 
this  living  shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate. 
He  was  a  complete  black-letter  hunter,  and  would  scarcely 
read  a  work  printed  in  the  Roman  character.  The  editions 


249 

of  Caxton  and  Wynkin  de  Wortle  were  his  delight;  and  he 
was  indefatigable  in  his  researches  after  such  old  English 
writers  as  have  fallen  into  oblivion  from  their  worthlessness. 
In  deference,  perhaps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge,  he 
had  made  diligent  investigations  into  the  festive  rites  and 
holy  day  customs  of  former  times ;  and  had  been  as  zealous 
in  the  inquiry  as  if  he  had  been  a  boon  companion ;  but  it 
was  merely  with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which  men  of 
adust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of  study,  merely  be- 
cause it  is  denominated  learning ;  indifferent  to  its  intrinsic 
nature,  whether  it  be  the  illustration  of  the  wisdom  or  of  the 
ribaldry  and  obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had  pored  over 
these  old  volumes  so  intensely  that  they  seemed  to  have  been 
reflected  into  his  countenance ;  which,  if  the  face  be  indeed 
an  index  of  the  mind,  might  be  compared  to  a  title  page  of 
black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church  porch,  we  found  the  parson  re- 
buking the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mistletoe 
among  the  proens  with  which  the  church  was  decorated.  It 
was,  he  o observed,  an  unholy  plant,  profaned  by  having  been 
used  by  the  Druids  in  their  mystic  ceremonies;  and  though 
it  might  be  innocently  employed  in  the  festive  ornamenting 
of  halls  and  kitchens,  yet  it  had  been  deemed  by  the  Fathers 
of  the  Church  as  unhallowed,  and  totally  unfit  for  sacred 
purposes.  So  tenacious  was  he  on  this  point,  that  the  poor 
sexton  was  obliged  to  strip  down  a  great  part  of  the  humble 
trophies  of  his  taste,  before  the  parson  would  consent  to  enter 
upon  the  service  of  the  day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable,  but  simple ;  on 
the  walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the  Bracebridges', 
and  just  beside  the  altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  workman- 
ship, on  which  lay  the  emgy  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  with  his 
legs  crossed,  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a  crusader.  I  was 
told  it  was  one  of  the  family  who  had  signalized  himself  in 
the  Holy  Land,  and  the  same  whose  picture  hung  over  the 
fireplace  in  the  hall. 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew  and 


250  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi) 

repeated  the  responses  very  audibly ;  evincing  that  kind  of 
ceremonious  devotion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman 
of  the  old  school,  and  a  man  of  old  family  connections.  I 
observed,  too,  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio  prayer- 
book  with  something  of  a  flourish,  possibly  to  show  off  an 
enormous  seal-ring  which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers,  and 
which  had  the  look  of  a  family  relic.  But  he  was  evidently 
most  solicitous  about  the  musical  part  of  the  service,  keep- 
ing his  eye  fixed  intently  on  the  choir,  and  beating  time  with 
much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a 
most  whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the  other, 
among  which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor, 
a  pale  fellow  with  a  retreating  forehead  and  chin,  who  played 
on  the  clarionet,  and  seemed  to  have  blown  his  face  to  a 
point;  and  there  was  another,  a  short  pursy  man,  stooping 
and  laboring  at  a  bass  viol,  so  as  to  show  nothing  but  the 
top  of  a  round  bald  head,  like  the  egg  of  an  ostrich.  There 
were  two  or  three  pretty  faces  among  the  female  singers,  to 
which  the  keen  air  of  a  frosty  morning  had  given  a  bright 
rosy  tint ;  but  the  gentlemen  choristers  had  evidently  been 
chosen,  like  old  Cremona  fiddles,  more  for  tone  than  looks; 
and  as  several  had  to  sing  from  the  same  book,  there  were 
clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies,  not  unlike  those  groups  of 
cherubs  we  sometimes  see  on  country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  tolerably 
well,  the  vocal  parts"  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the  in- 
strumental, and  some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then  making 
up  for  lost  time  by  traveling  over  a  passage  with  prodigious 
celerity,  and  clearing  more  bars  than  the  keenest  fox-hunter, 
to  be  in  at  the  death.  But  the  great  trial  was  an  anthem 
that  had  been  prepared  and  arranged  by  Master  Simon,  and 
on  which  he  had  founded  great  expectation.  Unluckily 
there  was  a  blunder  at  the  very  outset — the  musicians  be- 
came flurried;  Master  Simon  was  in  a  fever;  everything 
went  on  lamely  and  irregularly,  until  they  came  to  a  chorus 
beginning,  "Now  let  us  sing  with  one  accord,"  which  seemed 


251 

to  be  a  signal  for  parting  company :  all  became  discord  and 
confusion;  each  shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as 
well,  or,  rather,  as  soon  as  he  could;  excepting  one  old 
chorister,  in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  bestriding  and  pinch- 
ing a  long  sonorous  nosa;  who,  happening  to  stand  a  little 
apart,  and  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody,  kept  on 
a  quavering  course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his  book, 
and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars' 
duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites 
and  ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of  observing 
it,  not  merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing; 
supporting  the  correctness  of "  his  opinions  by  the  earliest 
usages  of  the  church,  and  enforcing  them  by  the  authorities 
of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea,  St.  Cyprian,  St.  Chrysostom,  St. 
Augustine,  and  a  cloud  more  of  Saints  and  Fathers,  from 
whom  he  made  copious  quotations.  I  was  a  little  at  a  loss 
to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty  array  of  forces  to 
maintain  a  point  which  no  one  present  seemed  inclined  to  dis- 
pute ;  but  I  soon  found  that  the  good  man  had  a  legion  of 
ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with ;  having,  in  the  course  of 
his  researches  on  the  subject  of  Christmas,  got  completely 
embroiled  in  the  sectarian  controversies  of  the  Revolution, 
when  the  Puritans  made  such  a  fierce  assault  upon  the  cere- 
monies of  the  church  and  poor  old  Christmas  was  driven  out 
of  the  land  by  proclamation  of  Parliament.*  The  worthy 

*  From  the  "Flying  Eagle,"  a  small  Gazette,  published  December 
24th,  1652— "The  House  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the  business 
of  the  Navy,  for  settling  the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose  werte 
presented  with  a  terrible  remonstrance  against  Christmas  day,  ground- 
ed upon  divine  Scriptures,  2  Cor.  v.  16,  1  Cor.  xv.  14,  17;  and  in  honor 
of  the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon  these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  1,  Rev. 
i.  10,  Psalms  cxviii.  24,  Lev.  xx.  iii.  7,  11,  Mark  xv.  8,  Psalms  Ixxxiv. 
10;  in  which  Christmas  is  called  Anti-christ's  masse,  and  those  Masse- 
mongers  and  Papists  who  observe  it,  etc.  In  consequence  of  which 
Parliament  spent  some  time  in  consultation  about  the  abolition  of 
Christmas  day,  passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to  sit  on  the 
following  day  which  was  commonly  called  Christmas  day." 


252  U/orks  of  U/asl?ip«$toJ5 

parson  lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew  but  little  of  the 
present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of 
his  antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  were  to 
him  as  the  gazettes  of  the  day ;  while  the  era  of  the  Revolu- 
tion was  mere  modern  history.  He  forgot  that  nearly  two 
centuries  had  elapsed  since  the  fiery  persecution  of  poor 
mince-pie  throughout  the  land;  when  plum  porridge  was 
denounced  as  "mere  popery,"  and  roast  beef  as  anti-Chris- 
tian; and  that  Christmas  had  been  brought  in  again  tri- 
umphantly with  the  merry  court  of  King  Charles  at  the 
Restoration.  He  kindled  into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his 
contest,  and  the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had 
to  combat;  he  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old  Prynne  and 
two  or  three  other  forgotten  champions  of  the  Round  Heads, 
on  the  subject  of  Christmas  festivity;  and  concluded  by  urg- 
ing his  hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affecting  manner,  to 
stand  to  the  traditional  customs  of  their  fathers,  and  feast 
and  make  merry  on  this  joyful  anniversary  of  the  church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently  with 
more  immediate  effects;  for  on  leaving  the  church,  the  con- 
gregation seemed  one  and  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of 
spirit  so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The  elder  folks 
gathered  in  knots  in  the  churchyard,  greeting  and  shaking 
hands;  and  the  children  ran  about  crying,  "Ule!  Ule!"  and 
repeating  some  uncouth  rhymes,*  which  the  parson,  who  had 
joined  us,  informed  me  had  been  handed  down  from  days 
of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed  their  hats  to  the  Squire  as  he 
passed,  giving  him  the  good  wishes  of  the  season  with  every 
appearance  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  invited  by  him  to 
the  hall,  to  take  something  to  keep  out  the  cold  of  the  weather; 
and  I  heard  blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor,  which 
convinced  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments,  the  worthy 

*"Ule!  Ule! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule; 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule!" 


Jl?e  8ketel?-BooK  253 

old  cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christmas  virtue  of     / 
charity_.___ 

On  our  way  homeward,  his  heart  seemed  overflowing 
with  generous  and  happy  feelings.  As  we  passed  over  a 
rising  ground  which  commanded  something  of  a  prospect, 
the  sounds  of  rustic  merriment  now  and  then  reached  our 
ears;  the  Squire  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked 
around  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  benignity.  The  beauty 
of  the  day  was,  of  itself,  sufficient  to  inspire  philanthropy. 
Notwithstanding  the  frostiness  of  the  morning,  the  sun  in 
his  cloudless  journey  had  acquired  sufficient  power  to  melt 
away  the  thin  covering  of  snow  from  every  southern  decliv- 
ity, and  to  bring  out  the  living  green  which  adorns  an  En- 
glish landscape  even  in  mid- winter.  Large  tracts  of  smiling 
verdure  contrasted  with  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  shaded 
slopes  and  hollows.  Every  sheltered  bank,  on  which  the 
broad  rays  rested,  yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold  and  limpid 
water,  glittering  through  the  dripping  grass;  and  sent  up 
slight  exhalations  to  contribute  to  the  thin  haze  that  hung 
just  above  the  surface  of  the  earth.  There  was  something 
truly  cheering  in  this  triumph  of  warmth  and  verdure  over 
the  frosty  thralldom  of  winter;  it  was,  as  the  JSquire  ob- 
served, an  emblem  of  Christmas  hospitality,  breaking 
through  the  chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness,  and  thaw- 
ing every  heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  with  pleasure  to 
the  indications  of  good  cheer  reeking  from  the  chimneys  of 
the  comfortable  farmhouses  and  low  thatched  cottages.  "I 
love,"  said  he,  "to  see  this  day  weU  kept  by  rich  and  poor; 
it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  one  day  in  the  year,  at  least,  when 
you  are  sure  of  being  welcome  wherever  you  go,  and  of  haV- 
ing,  as  it  were,  the  world  all  thrown  open  to  you;  and  I  am 
almost  disposed  to  join  with  poor  Robin,  in  his  malediction  on 
every  churlish  enemy  to  this  honest  festival : 

"  'Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine, 

And  would  fain  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch  catch  him."* 


#54  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir;<$tor>  Irulp(? 

The  Squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay  of  the 
games  and  amusements  which  were  once  prevalent  at  this 
season  among  the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  by  the. 
higher;  when  the  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses  were 
thrown  open  at  daylight;  when  the  tables  were  covered  with 
brawn,  and  beef,  and  humming  ale ;  when  the  harp  and  the 
carol  resounded  all  day  long,  and  when  rich  and  poor  were 
alike  welcome  to  enter  and  make  merry.*  "Our  old  games 
and  local  customs,"  said  he,  "had  a  great  effect  in  making 
the  peasant  fond  of  his  home,  and  the  promotion  of  them  by 
the  gentry  made  him  fond  of  his  lord.  They  made  the  times 
merrier,  and  kinder,  and  better,  and  I  can  truly  say  with  one 
of  our  old  poets, 

"  'I  like  them  well— the  curious  preciseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 

"The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered;  we  have  almost 
lost  our  simple  true-hearted  peasantry.  They  have  broken 
asunder  from  the  higher  classes,  and  seem  to  think  their 
interests  are  separate.  They  have  become  too  knowing,  and 
begin  to  read  newspapers,  listen  to  alehouse  politicians,  and 
talk  of  reform.  I  think  one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good 
humor  in  these  hard  times  would  be  for  the  nobility  and 
gentry  to  pass  more  time  on  their  estates,  mingle  more 
among  the  country  people,  and  set  the  merry  old  English 
games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  Squire's  project  for  mitigating  public 
discontent;  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted  to  put  his 

*  "An  English  gentleman  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day,  i.e.  on 
Christmas  day  in  the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and  neighbors 
enter  his  hall  by  daybreak.  The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and  the 
black  jacks  went  plentifully  about  with  toast,  sugar,  and  nutmeg,  and 
good  Cheshire  cheese.  The  Hackin  (the  great  sausage)  must  be  boiled 
by  daybreak,  or  else  two  young  men  must  take  the  maiden  (i.e.  the 
cook)  by  the  arms  and  run  her  round  the  market-place  till  she  is  shamed 
of  her  laziness." — Round  about  our  Sea- Coal  Fire. 


Jl?e  SKetol?-BooK  255 

doctrine  in  practice,  and  a  few  years  before  had  kept  open 
house  during  the  holydays  in  the  old  style.  The  country 
people,  however,  did  not  understand  how  to  play  their  parts 
in  the  scene  of  hospitality ;  many  uncouth  circumstances  oc- 
curred; the  manor  was  overrun  by  all  the  vagrants  of  the 
country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the  neighborhood  in 
one  week  than  the  parish  officers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year. 
Since  then  he  had  contented  himself  with  inviting  the  de- 
cent part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to  call  at  the  hall  on 
Christmas  day,  and  with  distributing  beef,  and  bread,  and 
ale,  among  the  poor,  that  they  might  make  merry  in  their 
own  dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home,  when  the  sound  of  music 
was  heard  from  a  distance.  A  band  of  country  lads,  with- 
out coats,  their  shirt-sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  ribbons, 
their  hats  decorated  with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their  hands, 
were  seen  advancing  up  the  avenue,  followed  by  a  large 
number  of  villagers  and  peasantry.  They  stopped  before  the 
hall  door,  where  the  music  struck  up  a  peculiar  air,  and  the 
lads  performed  a  curious  and  intricate  dance,  advancing,  re- 
treating, and  striking  their  clubs  together,  keeping  exact  time 
to  the  music;  while  one,  whimsically  crowned  with  a  fox's 
skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted  down  his  back^  kept  capering 
round  the  skirts  of  the  dance,  and  rattling  a  Christmas-box 
with  many  antic  gesticulations. 

The  Squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great  inter- 
est and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its  origin, 
which  he  traced  to  the  times  when  the  Romans  held  posses- 
sion of  the  island;  plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal  de- 
scendant of  the  sword-dance  of  the  ancients.  "It  was  now,*1* 
he  said,  "nearly  extinct,  but  he  had  accidentally  met  with 
traces  of  it  in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  encouraged  its  re- 
vival ;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  too  apt  to  be  followed 
up  by  rough  cudgel-play  and  broken  heads  in  the  evening." 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was  en- 
tertained with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout  home-brewed.  The 
Squire  himself  mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was  received 


5J56  U/orKs  of 

with  awkward  demonstrations  of  deference  and  regard.  It 
is  true,  I  perceived  two  or  three  of  the  younger  peasants,  as 
they  were  raising  their  tankards  to  their  mouths,  when  the 
Squire's  back  was  turned,  making  something  of  a  grimace, 
and  giving  each  other  the  wink ;  but  the  moment  they  caught 
my  eye  they  pulled  grave  faces,  and  were  exceedingly  de- 
mure. "With  Master  Simon,  however,  they  all  seemed  more 
at  their  ease.  His  varied  occupations  and  amusements  had 
made  him  well  known  throughout  the  neighborhood.  He 
was  a  visitor  at  every  farmhouse  and  cottage ;  gossiped  with 
the  farmers  and  their  wives;  romped  with  then-  daughters; 
and,  like  that  type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor  the  humble-bee, 
tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of  the  country  round. 

The  bashf ulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before  good 
cheer  and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine  and  affec- 
tionate in  the  gayety  of  the  lower  orders  when  it  is  excited 
by  the  bounty  and  familiarity  of  those  above  them;  the 
warm  glow  of  gratitude  enters  into  their  mirth,  and  a  kind 
word  or  a  small  pleasantry  frankly  uttered  by  a  patron  glad- 
dens the  heart  of  the  dependent  more  than  oil  and  wine. 
When  the  Squire  had  retired,  the  merriment  increased,  and 
there  was  much  joking  and  laughter,  particularly  between 
Master  Simon  .and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced,  white-headed  farmer, 
who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  village ;  for  I  observed  all 
his  companions  to  wait  with  open  mouths  for  his  retorts,  and 
burst  into  a  gratuitous  laugh  before  they  could  well  under- 
stand them. 

The  whole  house  indeed  seemed  abandoned  to  merriment : 
as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  music  in  a  small  court,  and  looking  through  a  window  that 
commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wandering  musicians, 
with  pandean  pipes  and  tambourine;  a  pretty  coquettish 
housemaid  was  dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart  country  lad, 
while  several  of  the  other  servants  were  looking  on.  In  the 
midst  of  her  sport,  the  girl  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at 
the  window,  and  coloring  up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish 
affected  confusion. 


SKetel?-BooK  257 


THE    CHRISTMAS    DINNER 

"Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast! 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Each  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbors'  chimneys  smoke 
•    And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee  '1  bury  't  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry." 

— WITHER'S  Juvenilia 

I  HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with  Frank 
Bracebridge  in  the  library,  when  we  heard  a  distant  thwack- 
ing sound,  which  he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for  the  serv- 
ing up  of  the  dinner.  The  Squire  kept  up  old  customs  in 
kitchen  as  well  as  hall;  and  the  rolling-pin  struck  upon  the 
dresser  by  the  cook  summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in 
the  meats. 

"Just  in  this  knick"  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
Marched  boldly  up,  like  our  train-band, 
Presented,  and  away."  * 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall,  where  the 
Squire  always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.  A  blazing  crack- 
ling fire  of  logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious 
apartment,  and  the  flame  went  sparkling  and  wreathing  up 
the  wide-mouthed  chimney.  The  great  picture  of  the  cru- 

*  Sir  John  Suckling. 


258  U/orks  of  U7asl?ii)$toi> 

sader  and  his  white  horse  had  been  pfrof  usely  decorated  with 
greens  for  the  occasion ;  and  holly  and  ivy  had  likewise  been 
wreathed  round  the  helmet  and  weapons  on  the  opposite  wall, 
which  I  understood  were  the  arms  of  the  same  warrior.  I 
must  own,  by  the  bye,  I  had  strong  doubts  about  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  painting  and  armor  as  having  belonged  to  the 
crusader,  they  certainly  having  the  stamp  of  more  recent 
days ;  but  I  was  told  that  the  painting  had  been  so  consid- 
ered time  out  of  mind ;  and  that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been 
found  in  a  lumber-room,  and  elevated  to  its  present  situation 
by  the  Squire,  who  at  once  determined  it  to  be  the  armor  of 
the  family  hero;  and  as  he  was  absolute  authority  on  all 
such  subjects  in  his  own  household,  the  matter  had  passed 
into  current  acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set  out  just  un 
der  this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was  a  display  of  plate 
that  might  have  vied  (at  least  in  variety)  with  Belshazzar's 
parade  of  the  vessels  of  the  temple;  "flagons,  cans,  cups, 
beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and  ewers' ' ;  the  gorgeous  utensils 
of  good  companionship  that  had  gradually  accumulated 
through  many  generations  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before 
these  stood  the  two  yule  candles,  beaming  like  two  stars  of 
the  first  magnitude ;  other  lights  were  distributed  in  branches, 
and  the  whole  array  glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the 
sound  of  minstrelsy;  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a  stool 
beside  the  fireplace,  and  twanging  his  instrument  with  a  vast 
deal  more  power  than  melody.  Never  did  Christmas  board 
display  a  more  goodly  and  gracious  assemblage  of  counte- 
nances ;  those  who  were  not  handsome  were,  at  least,  happy ; 
and  happiness  is  a  rare  improver  of  your  hard-favored  vis- 
age. I  always  consider  an  old  English  family  as  well  worth 
studying  as  a  collection  of  Holbein's  portraits  or  Albert 
Durer's  prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be  ac- 
quired; much  knowledge  of  the  physiognomies  of  former 
times.  Perhaps  it  may  be  from  having  continually  before 
their  eyes  those  rows  of  old  family  portraits  with  which  the 
mansions  of  tnis  country  are  stocked;  certain  it  is  that  the 


Jlpe  SKetel?-BooK  259 

quaint  features  of  antiquity  are  often  most  faithfully  per- 
petuated in  these  ancient  lines;  and  I  have  traced  an  old 
family  nose  through  a  whole  picture-gallery,  legitimately 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  almost  from  the 
time  of  the  Conquest.  Something  of  the  kind  was  to  be  ob- 
served in  the  worthy  company  around  me.  Many  of  their 
faces  had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic  age,  and  been 
merely  copied  by  succeeding  generations ;  and  there  was  one 
little  girl,  in  particular,  of  staid  demeanor,  with  a  high  Ro- 
man nose,  and  an  antique  vinegar  aspect,  who  was  a  great 
favorite  of  the  Squire's,  being,  as  he  said,  a  Bracebridge  all 
over,  and  the  very  counterpart  of  one  of  his  ancestors  who 
figured  in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short  familiar 
one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed  to  the  Deity  in  these 
unceremonious  days;  but  a  long,  courtly,  well-worded  one 
of  the  ancient  school.  There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if  some- 
thing was  expected ;  when  suddenly  the  butler  entered  the 
hall  with  some  degree  of  bustle :  he  was  attended  by  a  ser- 
vant on  each  side  with  a  large  wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver 
dish,  on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's  head,  decorated  with 
rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth,  which  was  placed  with 
great  formality  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  moment  this 
pageant  made  its  appearance  the  harper  struck  up  a  flourish; 
at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  young  Oxonian,  on  receiving 
a  hint  from  the  Squire,  gave,  with  an  air  of  the  most  comic 
gravity,  an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of  which  was  as  follows : 

"Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio." 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little  eccen- 
tricities, from  being  apprized  of  the  peculiar  hobby  of  mine 
host,  yet,  I  confess,  the  parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish  was 
introduced  somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I  gathered  from 


260  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$toi) 

the  conversation  of  the  Squire  and  the  parson  that  it  was 
meant  to  represent  the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head — a 
dish  formerly  served  up  with  much  ceremony,  and  the  sound 
of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great  tables  on  Christmas  day. 
"I  like  the  old  custom,"  said  the  Squire,  "not  merely  be- 
cause it  is  stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  because  it  was 
observed  at  the  college  at  Oxford,  at  which  I  was  educated. 
When  I  hear  the  old  song  chanted,  it  brings  to  mind  the  time 
when  I  was  young  and  gamesome — and  the  noble  old  college 
hall — and  my  fellow-students  loitering  about  in  their  black 
gowns;  many  of  whom,  poor  lads,  are  now  in  their  graves!" 
The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not  haunted  by 
such  associations,  and  who  was  always  more  taken  up  with 
the  text  than  the  sentiment,  objected  to  the  Oxonian's  ver- 
sion of  the  carol ;  which,  he  affirmed,  was  different  from  that 
sung  at  college.  He  went  on,  with  the  dry  perseverance  of 
a  commentator,  to  give*  the  college  reading,  accompanied  by 
sundry  annotations;  addressing  himself  at  first  to  the  com- 
pany at  large ;  but  finding  their  attention  gradually  diverted 
to  other  talk,  and  other  objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as  his 
number  of  auditors  diminished,  until  he  concluded  his  re- 
marks in  an  under  voice,  to  a  fat-headed  old  gentleman  next 
him,  who  was  silently  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  a  huge 
plateful  of  turkey.  * 

*  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head  on  Christmas  day 
is  still  observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored 
by  the  parson  with  a  copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung,  and  as  it  may  be 
acceptable  to  such  of  my  readers  as  are  curious  in  these  grave  and 
learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire: 

"The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry, 
Quot  estis  in  convivio. 
Caput  apri  defero. 
Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

"The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 


261 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer,  and  pre- 
sented an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this  season  of 
overflowing  larders.  A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to 
"ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host  termed  it;  being,  as  he  added, 
'"the  standard  of  old  English  hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly 
presence,  and  full  of  expectation."  There  were  several  dishes 
quaintly  decorated,  and  which  had  evidently  something  tradi- 
tional in  their  embellishments ;  but  about  which,  as  I  did  not 
like  to  appear  overcurious,  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently 
decorated  with  peacocks'  .feathers,  in  imitation  of  the  tail 
of  that  bird,  which  overshadowed  a  considerable  tract  of  the 
table.  This,  the  Squire  confessed,  with  some  little  hesita- 
tion, was  a  pheasant  pie,  though  a  peacock  pie  was  certainly 
the  most  authentical;  but  there  had  been  such  a  mortality 
among  the  peacocks  this  season  that  he  could  not  prevail 
upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.* 

Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 

Caput  apri  defero,  etc. 
"Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 

Caput  apri  defero,"  etc. 

*  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately  entertain- 
ments. Sometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the 
head  appeared  above  the  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly 
gilt;  at  the  other  end  the  tail  was  displayed.  Such  pies  were  served 
up  at  the  solemn  banquets  of  chivalry,  when  knights-errant  pledged 
themselves  to  undertake  any  perilous  enterprise,  whence  came,  the 
ancient  oath,  used  by  Justice  Shallow,  "by  cock  and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas  feast; 
and  Massinger,  in  his  ;'City  Madam,"  gives  some  idea  of  the  extrava- 
gance with  which  this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for  the 
gorgeous  revels  of  the  olden  times: 

Men  may  talk  of  Country  Cbristmasses. 

Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of  carps'  tongues: 
Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris;  the  carcases  of  three  fat 
wethers  bruised  for  gravy  to  make  sauce  for  a  siKjle  peacock! 


262  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir?<$tOQ  Irvirp$ 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers,  who 
may  not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and  obsolete 
things  to  which  I  am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the 
other  makeshifts  of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by  which  he 
was  endeavoring  to  follow  up,  though  at  humble  distance, 
the  quaint  customs  of  antiquity.  I  was  pleased,  however, 
to  see  the  respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his  children  and 
relatives;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily  into  the  full  spirit 
of  them,  and  seemed  all  well  versed  in  their  parts;  having 
doubtless  been  present  at  many  a  rehearsal.  I  was  amused, 
too,  at  the  air  of  profound  gravity  with  which  the  butler  and 
other  servants  executed  the  duties  assigned  them,  however 
eccentric.  They  had  an  old-fashioned  look ;  having,  for  the 
most  part,  been  brought  up  in  the  household,  and  grown  into 
keeping  with  the  antiquated  mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its 
lord ;  and  most  probably  looked  upon  all  his  whimsical  regu- 
lations as  the  established  laws  of  honorable  housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought  in  a 
huge  silver  vessel  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship,  which 
he  placed  before  the  Squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed  with 
acclamation ;  being  the  "Wassail  Bowl,  so  renowned  in  Christ- 
mas festivity.  The  contents  had  been  prepared  by  the  Squire 
himself ;  for  it  was  a  beverage  in  the  skillful  mixture  of  which 
he  particularly  prided  himself :  alleging  that  it  was  too  ab- 
struse and  complex  for  the  comprehension  of  an  ordinary 
servant.  It  was  a  potation,  indeed,  that  might  well  make 
the  heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him;  being  composed  of  the 
richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly  spiced  and  sweetened,  with 
roasted  apples  bobbing  about  the  surface.* 


*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale  instead  of 
wine;  with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs;  in  this  way 
the  nut-brown  beverage  is  still  prepared  in  some  old  families,  and  round 
the  hearth  of  substantial  farmers  at  Christmas.  It  is  also  called  Lamb's 
Wool,  and  it  is  celebrated  by  Herrick  in  his  "Twelfth  Night": 

"Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 
With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool, 


263 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed  with  a 
serene  look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he  stirred  this  mighty 
bowl.  Having  raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty  wish  of  a 
merry  Christmas  to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brimming  round 
the  board,  for  every  one  to  follow  his  example  according  to 
the  primitive  style;  pronouncing  it  "the  ancient  fountain  of 
good  feeling,  where  all  hearts  met  together."  * 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying,  as  the  honest 
emblem  of  Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  was  kissed 
rather  coyly  by  the  ladies.  But  when  it  reached  Master 
Simon,  he  raised  it  in  both  hands,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  boon 
companion,  struck  up  an  old  Wassail  Chanson : 

"The  brown  bowle, 
The  merry  brown  bowle, 
As  it  goes  round  about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will, 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a. 

"The  deep  canne, 
The  merry  deep  canne, 
As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 

Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a."f 

Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon 
family  topics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was,  how- 
ever, a  great  deal  of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some 

Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger, 

With  store  of  ale  too; 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger." 

*  "The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place  to  each 
having  his  cup.  When  the  steward  came  to  the  doore  with  the  Wassel, 
he  was  to  cry  three  times,  Wassel,  Wassel,  Wassel,  and  then  the  chap- 
pell  (chaplain)  was  to  answer  with  a  song." — Archceologia. 

4  From  Poor  Robin's  Almanack. 


'264  U/or^s  of 


gay  widow,  with  whom  he  was  accused  of  having  a  flirta- 
tion. This  attack  was  commenced  by  the  ladies  ;  but  it  was 
continued  throughout  the  dinner  by  the  fat-headed  old  gen- 
tleman next  the  parson,  with  the  persevering  assiduity  of 
a  slow  hound  ;  being  one  of  those  long-winded  jokers  who, 
though  rather  dull  at  starting  game,  are  unrivaled  for  their 
talents  in  hunting  it  down.  At  every  pause  in  the  general 
conversation  he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty  much  the 
same  terms  ;  winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes  whenever 
he  gave  Master  Simon  what  he  considered  a  home  thrust. 
The  latter,  indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being  teased  on  the  sub- 
ject, as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be  ;  and  he  took  occasion  to 
inform  me,  in  an  undertone,  that  the  lady  in  question  was  a 
prodigiously  fine  woman  and  drove  her  own  curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  innocent 
hilarity,  and  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded  in  its 
time  with  many  a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I 
doubt  whether  it  ever  witnessed  more  honest  and  genuine 
enjoyment.  How  easy  it  is  for  one  benevolent  being  to 
diffuse  pleasure  around  him;  and  how  truly  is  a  kind  heart 
a  fountain  of  gladness,  making  everything  in  its  vicinity  to 
freshen  into  smiles!  The  joyous  disposition  of  the  worthy 
Squire  was  perfectly  contagious;  he  was  happy  himself,  and 
disposed  to  make  all  the  world  happy  ;  and  the  little  eccen- 
tricities of  his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a  manner,  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation,  as  usual, 
became  still  more  animated  :  many  good  things  were  broached 
which  had  been  thought  of  during  dinner,  but  which  would 
not  exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear;  and  though  I  cannot  posi- 
tively affirm  that  there  was  much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have 
certainly  heard  many  contests  of  rare  wit  produce  much  less 
laughter.  Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart,  pungent  ingredi- 
ent, and  much  too  acid  for  some  stomachs;  but  honest  good- 
humor  is  the  oil  and  wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and  there  is 
no  jovial  companionship  equal  to  that,  where  the  jokes  are 
rather  small,  and  the  laughter  abundant. 


Tl?e  SKetel?-BooK  265 

The  Squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early  college  pranks 
and  adventures,  in  some  of  which  the  parson  had  been  a 
sharer;  though,  in  looking  at  the  latter,  it  required  some 
effort  of  imagination  to  figure  such  a  little  dark  anatomy  of 
a  man  into  the  perpetrator  of  a  madcap  gambol.  Indeed, 
the  two  college  chums  presented  pictures  of  what  men  may 
be  made  by  their  different  lots  in  life :  the  Squire  had  left 
the  university  to  live  lustily  on  his  paternal  domains,  in  the 
vigorous  enjoyment  of  prosperity  and  sunshine,  and  had 
flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and  florid  old  age ;  while  the  poor 
parson,  on  the  contrary,  had  dried  and  withered  away, 
among  dusty  tomes,  in  the  silence  and  shadows  of  his  study. 
Still  there  seemed  to  be  a  spark  of  almost  extinguished  fire 
feebly  glimmering  in  the  bottom  of  his  soul ;  and,  as  the  Squire 
hinted  at  a  sly  story  of  the  parson  and  a  pretty  milkmaid  whom 
they  once  met  on  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  the  old  gentleman  made 
an  "alphabet  of  faces,"  which,  as  far  as  I  could  decipher  his 
physiognomy,  I  verily  believe  was  indicative  of  laughter; 
indeed,  I  have  rarely  met  with  an  old  gentleman  that  took 
absolute  offense  at  the  imputed  gallantries  of  his  youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gaining  on  the 
dry  land  of  sober  judgment.  The  company  grew  merrier 
and  louder,  as  their  jokes  grew  duller.  Master  Simon  was 
in  as  chirping  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper  filled  with  dew ;  his 
old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer  complexion,  and  he  began  to 
talk  maudlin  about  the  widow.  He  even  gave  a  long  song 
about  the  wooing  of  a  widow,  which  he  informed  me  he  had 
gathered  from  an  excellent  black-letter  work  entitled  "Cupid's 
Solicitor  for  Love";  containing  store  of  good  advice  for 
bachelors,  and  which  he  promised  to  lend  me ;  the  first  verse 
was  to  this  effect : 

"He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 

He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine; 
He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  say,  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine." 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman,  who 
made  several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad  story  of  Joe 
*  *  *12  VOL.  I. 


of  U/asl?ir>$tor> 

Miller,  that  was  pat  to  the  purpose ;  but  he  always  stuck  in 
the  middle,  everybody  recollecting  the  latter  part  excepting 
himself.  The  parson,  too,  began  to  show  the  effects  of  good 
cheer,  having  gradually  settled  down  into  a  doze,  and  his 
wig  sitting  most  suspiciously  on  one  side.  Just  at  this  junct- 
ure, we  were  summoned  to  the  drawing-room,  and,  I  sus- 
pect, at  the  private  instigation  of  mine  host,  whose  joviality 
seemed  always  tempered  with  a  proper  love  of  decorum. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed,  the  hall  was  given 
up  to  the  younger  members  of  the  family,  who,  prompted  to 
all  kind  of  noisy  mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon, 
made  its  old  walls  ring  with  their  merriment,  as  they  played 
at  romping  games.  I  delight  in  witnessing  the  gambols  of 
children,  and  particularly  at  this  happy  holyday  season,  and 
could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the  drawing-room  on  hearing 
one  of  their  peals  of  laughter.  I  found  them  at  the  game 
of  blind-man's-buff.  Master  Simon,  who  was  the  leader  of 
their  revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions  to  fulfill  the  office 
of  that  ancient  potentate,  the  Lord  of  Misrule,*  was  blinded 
in  the  midst  of  the  hall.  The  little  beings  were  as  busy 
about  him  as  the  mock  fairies  about  Falstaff ;  pinching  him, 
plucking  at  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  tickling  him  with 
straws.  One  fine  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thirteen,  with  her 
flaxen  hair  all  in  beautiful  confusion,  her  frolic  face  in  a 
glow,  her  frock  half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a  complete  pict- 
ure of  a  romp,  was  the  chief  tormentor ;  and  from  the  slyness 
with  which  Master  Simon  avoided  the  smaller  game,  and 
hemmed  this  wild  little  nymph  in  corners,  and  obliged  her  to 
jump  shrieking  over  chairs,  I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being 
not  a  whit  more  blinded  than  was  convenient. 

"When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  the  com- 
pany seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the  parson,  who  was 
deeply  ensconced  in  a  high-backed  oaken  chair,  the  work  of 

*  "At  Christmasse  there  was  in  the  Kinges  house,  wheresoever  hee 
was  lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mayster  of  merie  disportes,  and  the 
like  had  ye  in  the  house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor;  or  good  wor- 
shippe,  were  he  spirituall  or  temporall." — STOW. 


Jl?e  Sketel?-BooK  267 

some  cunning  artificer  of  yore,  which  had  been  brought  from 
the  library  for  his  particular  accommodation.  From  this 
venerable  piece  of  furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy  figure 
and  dark  weazen  face  so  admirably  accorded,  he  was  dealing 
forth  strange  accounts  of  the  popular  superstitions  and  legends 
of  the  surrounding  country,  with  which  he  had  become  ac- 
quainted in  the  course  of  his  antiquarian  researches.  I  am 
half  inclined  to  think  that  the  old  gentleman  was  himself 
somewhat  tinctured  with  superstition,  as  men  are  very  apt 
to  be  who  live  a  recluse  and  studious  life  in  a  sequestered 
part  of  the  country,  and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts,  so 
often  filled  with  the  marvelous  and  supernatural.  He  gave 
us  several  anecdotes  of  the  fancies  of  the  neighboring  peas- 
antry, concerning  the  effigy  of  the  crusader,  which  lay  on 
the  tomb  by  the  church  altar.  As  it  was  the  only  monu- 
ment of  the  kind  in  that  part  of  the  country,  it  had  always 
been  regarded  with  feelings  of  superstition  by  the  good  wives 
of  the  village.  It  was  said  to  get  up  from  the  tomb  and 
walk  the  rounds  of  the  churchyard  in  stormy  nights,  par- 
ticularly when  it  thundered ;  and  one  old  woman  whose  cot- 
tage bordered  on  the  churchyard  had  seen  it  through  the 
windows  of  the  church,  when  the  moon  shone,  slowly  pacing 
up  and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that  some  wrong 
had  been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased,  or  some  treasure 
hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in  a  state  of  trouble  and  rest- 
lessness. Some  talked  of  gold  and  jewels  buried  in  the  tomb, 
over  which  the  specter  kept  watch ;  and  there  was  a  story 
current  of  a  sexton,  in  old  times,  who  endeavored  to  break 
his  way  to  the  coffin  at  night;  but  just  as  he  reached  it,  re- 
ceived a  violent  blow  from  the  marble  hand  of  the  effigy; 
which  stretched  him  senseless  on  the  pavement.  These 
tales  were  often  laughed  at  by  some  of  the  sturdier  among 
the  rustics ;  yet,  when  night  came  on,  there  were  many  of 
the  stoutest  unbelievers  that  were  shy  of  venturing  alone 
in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  churchyard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the  cru- 
sader appeared   to  be  the   favorite    hero   of    ghost  stories 


268  U/orks  of 

throughout  the  vicinity.  His  picture,  which  hung  up  in 
the  hall,  was  thought  by  the  servants  to  have  something 
supernatural  about  it;  for  they  remarked  that,  in  whatever 
part  of  the  hall  you  went,  the  eyes  of  the  warrior  were  still 
fixed  on  you.  The  old  porter's  wife,  too,  at  the  lodge,  who 
had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  family,  and  was  a  great 
gossip  among  the  maid- servants,  affirmed,  that  in  her  young 
days  she  had  often  heard  say  that  on  Midsummer  eve,  when 
it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins,  and  fairies,  be- 
come visible  and  walk  abroad,  the  crusader  used  to  mount 
his  horse,  come  down  from  his  picture,  ride  about  the  house, 
down  the  avenue,  and  so  to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb;  on 
which  occasion  the  church  door  most  civilly  swung  open  of 
itself;  not  that  he  needed  it — for  he  rode  through  closed 
gates  and  even  stone  walls,  and  had  been  seen  by  one  of  the 
dairy-maids  to  pass  between  two  bars  of  the  great  park  gate, 
making  himself  as  thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  much  counte- 
nanced by  the  Squire,  who,  though  not  superstitious  himself, 
was  very  fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He  listened  to  every  gob- 
lin tale  of  the  neighboring  gossips  with  infinite  gravity,  and 
held  the  porter's  wife  in  high  favor  on  account  of  her  talent 
for  the  marvelous.  He  was  himself  a  great  reader  of  old 
legends  and  romances,  and  often  lamented  that  he  could  not 
believe  in  them ;  for  a  superstitious  person,  he  thought,  must 
live  in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

While  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories,  our 
ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  heterogeneous 
sounds  from  the  hall,  in  which  were  mingled  something  like 
the  clang  of  rude  minstrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of  many  small 
voices  and  girlish  laughter.  The  door  suddenly  flew  open, 
and  a  train  came  trooping  into  the  room  that  might  almost 
have  been  mistaken  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  court  of  Fairy. 
That  indefatigable  spirit,  Master  Simon,  in  the  faithful  dis- 
charge of  his  duties  as  lord  of  misrule,  had  conceived  the 
idea  of  a  Christmas  mummery,  or  masking;  and  having 
called  in  to  his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and  the  young  officer, 


269 

who  were  equally  ripe  for  anything  that  should  occasion 
romping  and  merriment,  they  had  carried  it  into  instant 
effect.  The  old  housekeeper  had  been  consulted ;  the  antique 
clothes-presses  and  wardrobes  rummaged,  and  made  to  yield 
up  the  relics  of  finery  that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several 
generations;  the  younger  part  of  the  company  had  been  pri- 
vately convened  from  parlor  and  hall,  and  the  whole  had 
been  bedizened  out  into  a  burlesque  imitation  of  an  antique 
mask.* 

Master  Simon  led  the  van  as  "Ancient  Christmas," 
quaintly  appareled  in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak,  which  had  very 
much  the  aspect  of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats, 
and  a  hat  that  might  have  served  for  a  village  steeple,  and 
must  indubitably  have  figured  in  the  days  of  the  Covenant- 
ers. From  under  this,  his  nose  curved  boldly  forth,  flushed 
with  a  frost  bitten  bloom  that  seemed  the  very  trophy  of  a 
December  blast.  He  was  accompanied  by  the  blue-eyed 
romp,  dished  up  as  "Dame  Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable 
magnificence  of  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher,  peaked 
heart,  and  high-heeled  shoes. 

The  young  officer  appeared  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a  sporting 
dress  of  Kendal  green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to  deep 
research,  and  there  was  an  evident  eye  to  the  picturesque, 
natural  to  a  young  gallant  in  presence  of  his  mistress.  The 
fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic  dress,  as  "Maid 
Marian."  The  rest  of  the  tram  had  been  metamorphosed  in 
various  ways;  the  girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  the  an- 
cient belles  of  the  Bracebridge  line,  and  the  striplings  be- 
whiskered  with  burned  cork,  and  gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts1, 
hanging  sleeves,  and  full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the 
characters  of  Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other  worthies 

*  Maskings  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at  Christmas,  in  old 
times;  and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and  manor-houses  were  often  laid 
under  contribution  to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  disguisings.  I 
strongly  suspect  Master  Simon  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from  Ben 
Jonson's  "Masque  of  Christmas." 


270  U/orks  of  U/asl?ir>$tor>  Irvir>$ 

celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole  was  under  the 
control  of  the  Oxonian,  in  the  appropriate  character  of  Mis- 
rule ;  and  I  observed  that  he  exercised  rather  a  mischievous 
sway  with  his  wand  over  the  smaller  personages  of  the 
pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of  drum,  ac 
cording  to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consummation  of  uproar 
and  merriment.  Master  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory 
by  the  stateliness  with  which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he 
walked  a  minuet  with  the  peerless,  though  giggling,  Dame 
Mince  Pie.  It  was  followed  by  a  dance  from  ah1  the  char- 
acters, which,  from  its  medley  of  costumes,  seemed  as  though 
the  old  family  portraits  had  skipped  down  from  their  frames 
to  join  in  the  sport.  Different  centuries  were  figuring  at 
cross-hands  and  right  and  left;  the  dark  ages  were  cutting 
pirouettes  and  rigadoons;  and  the  days  of  Queen  Bess  jig- 
ging merrily  down  the  middle,  through  a  line  of  succeeding- 
generations. 

The  worthy  Squire  contemplated  these  fantastic  sports, 
and  this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with  the  simple 
relish  of  childish  delight.  He  stood  chuckling  and  rubbing 
his  hands,  and  scarcely  hearing  a  word  the  parson  said,  not- 
withstanding that  the  latter  was  discoursing  most  authenti- 
cally on  the  ancient  and  stately  dance  of  the  Pa  von,  or  pea- 
cock, from  which  he  conceived  the  minuet  to  be  derived.* 
For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual  excitement  from  the  varied 
scenes  of  whim  and  innocent  gayety  passing  before  me.  It 
was  inspiring  to  see  wild-eyed  frolic  and  warm-hearted  hos- 
pitality breaking  out  from  among  the  chills  and  glooms  of 
winter,  and  old  age  throwing  off  his  apathy,  and  catching 
once  more  the  freshness  of  youthful  enjojonent.  I  felt  also 

*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  the  Pavon,  from 
pavo,  a  peacock,  says:  "It  is  a  grave  and  majestic  dance;  the  method 
of  dancing  it  anciently  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords, 
by  those  of  the  long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  the  peers  in  their  mantles, 
and  by  the  ladies  in  gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof  in 
dancing  resembled  that  of  a  peacock."— History  of  Music. 


271 

an  interest  in  the  scene,  from  the  consideration  that  these 
fleeting  customs  were  posting  fast  into  oblivion,  and  that  this 
was,  perhaps,  the  only  family  in  England  in  which  the  whole 
of  them  were  still  punctiliously  observed.  There  was  a 
quaintness,  too,  mingled  with  all  this  revelry,  that  gave 
it  a  peculiar  zest :  it  was  suited  to  the  tune  and  place ;  and 
as  the  old  manor-house  almost  reeled  with  mirth  and  wassail, 
it  seemed  echoing  back  the  joviality  of  long-departed  years. 


But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols :  it  is  time  for 
me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the  question 
asked  by  my  graver  readers,  "To  what  purpose  is  all  this — 
how  is  the  world  to  be  made  wiser  by  this  talk?"  Alas!  is 
there  not  wisdom  enough  extant  for  the  instruction  of  the 
world?  And  if  not,  are  there  not  thousands  of  abler  pens 
laboring  for  its  improvement? — It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to 
pleasejbhan  to  instruct — to  play  the  companion  rather  than 
the  preceptor.  ~~ 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could  throw 
into  the  mass  of  knowledge ;  or  how  am  I  sure  that  my 
sagest  deductions  may  be  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of 
others?  But  in  writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail  the  only  evil  is 
my  own  disappointment.  If,  however,  I  can  by  any  lucky 
chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from  the 
brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of 
sorrow — if  I  can  now  and  then  penetrate  through  the  gather- 
ing film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a  benevolent  view  of  human 
nature,  and  make  my  reader  more  in  good  humor  with  his 
fellow-beings  and  himself,  surely,  surely,  I  shall  not  then 
have  written  entirely  in  vain. 


[THE  following  modicum  of  local  history  was  lately  put 
into  my  hands  by  an  odd-looking  old  gentleman  in  a  small 
brown  wig  and  snuff-colored  coat,  with  whom  I  became  ac- 


272  U/orks  of  U/a8t>ir>$tor>  Iruir>$ 

quainted  in  the  course  of  one  of  my  tours  of  observation 
through  the  center  of  that  great  wilderness,  the  City.  I 
confess  that  I  was  a  little  dubious,  at  first,  whether  it  was 
not  one  of  those  apocryphal  tales  often  passed  off  upon  in- 
quiring travelers  like  myself;  and  which  have  brought  our 
general  character  for  veracity  into  such  unmerited  reproach. 
On  making  proper  inquiries,  however,  I  have  received  the 
most  satisfactory  assurances  of  the  author's  probity;  and,-  in- 
deed, have  been  told  that  he  is  actually  engaged  in  a  full 
and  particular  account  of  the  very  interesting  region  in 
which  he  resides,  of  which  the  following  may  be  considered 
merely  as  a  foretaste.] 


LITTLE    BRITAIN 

"What  I  write  is  most  true  ....  I  have  a  whole  booke  of  cases 
lying  by  me,  which  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave  auntient* 
(within  the  hearing  of  Bow  bell)  would  be  out  of  charity  with  me." 
—NASH 

IN  the  center  of  the  great  City  of  London  lies  a  small 
neighborhood,  consisting  of  a  cluster  of  narrow  streets  and 
courts,  of  very  venerable  and  debilitated  houses,  which  goes 
by  the  name  of  Little  Britain.  Christ  Church  school  and  St. 
Bartholomew's  hospital  bound  it  on  the  west;  Smithfield  and 
Long  Lane  on  the  north;  Aldersgate  Street,  like  an  arm  of 
the  sea,  divides  it  from  the  eastern  part  of  the  city ;  while 
the  yawning  gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  separates  it  from 
Butcher  Lane,  and  the  regions  of  New  Gate.  Over  this  lit- 
tle territory,  thus  bounded  and  designated,  the  great  dome 
of  St.  Paul's,  swelling  above  the  intervening  houses  of  Pa- 
ternoster Row,  Amen  Corner,  and  Ave-Maria  Lane,  looks 
down  with  an  air  of  motherly  protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having  been,  in 
ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  Brittany.  As 
London  increased,  however,  rank  and  fashion  rolled  off  to 


273 

the  west,  and  trade,  creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took  posses- 
sion of  their  deserted  abodes.  For  some  time,  Little  Britain 
became  the  great  mart  of  learning,  and  was  peopled  by  the 
busy  and  prolific  race  of  booksellers :  these  also  gradually 
deserted  it,  and  emigrating  beyond  the  great  strait  of  New 
Gate  Street,  settled  down  in  Paternoster  Row  and  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard ;  where  they  continue  to  increase  and  multiply, 
even  at  the  present  day. 

But  though  thus  fallen  into  decline,  Little  Britain  still 
bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor.  There  are  several  houses, 
ready  to  tumble  down,  the  fronts  of  which  are  magnificently 
enriched  with  old  oaken  carvings  of  hideous  faces,  unknown 
birds,  beasts,  and  fishes;  and  fruits  and  flowers  which  it 
would  perplex  a  naturalist  to  classify.  There  are  also,  in 
Aldersgate  Street,  certain  remains  of  what  were  once  spa- 
cious and  lordly  family  mansions,  but  which  have  in  latter 
days  been  subdivided  into  several  tenements.  Here  may 
often  be  found  the  family  of  a  petty  tradesman,  with  its 
trumpery  furniture,  burro  wing  among  the  relics  of  anti- 
quated finery,  in  great  rambling  time-stained  apartments, 
with  fretted  ceilings,  gilded  cornices,  and  enormous  marble 
fireplaces.  The  lanes  and  courts  also  contain  many  smaller 
houses,  not  on  so  grand  a  scale ;  but,  like  your  small  ancient 
gentry,  sturdily  maintaining  their  claims  to  equal  antiquity. 
These  have  their  gable-ends  to  the  street ;  great  bow-win- 
dows, with  diamond  panes  set  in  lead ;  grotesque  carvings ; 
and  low-arched  doorways.* 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have  I 
passed  several  quiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably  lodged 
in  the  second  floor  of  one  of  the  smallest,  but  oldest  edifices.' 
My  sitting-room  is  an  old  wainscoted  chamber,  with  small 
panels,  and  set  off  with  a  miscellaneous  array  of  furniture. 
I  have  a  particular  respect  for  three  or  four  high-backed, 

*  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  communication 
has  included,  in  his  general  title  of  Little  Britain,  many  of  those  little 
lanes  and  courts  that  belong  immediately  to  Cloth  Fair. 


274  U/orK»  of 

claw-footed  chairs,  covered  with  tarnished  brocade,  which 
bear  the  marks  of  having  seen  better  days,  and  have  doubt- 
less figured  in  some  of  the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain. 
They  seem  to  me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  down  with 
sovereign  contempt  upon  their  leathern-bottomed  neighbors; 
as  I  have  seen  decayed  gentry  carry  a  high  head  among  the 
plebeian  society  with  which  they  were  reduced  to  associate. 
The  whole  front  of  my  sitting-room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow- 
window;  on  the  panes  of  which  are  recorded  the  names 
of  previous  occupants  for  many  generations ;  mingled  with 
scraps  of  very  indifferent  gentleman-like  poetry,  written  in 
characters  which  I  can  scarcely  decipher;  and  which  extol 
the  charms  of  many  a  beauty  of  Little  Britain,  who  has 
long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed  away.  As  I 
am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent  occupation,  and  pay 
my  bill  regularly  every  week,  I  am  looked  upon  as  the  only 
independent  gentleman  of  the  neighborhood ;  and  being  curi- 
ous to  learn  the  internal  state  of  a  community  so  apparently 
shut  up  within  itself,  I  have  managed  to  work  my  way  into 
all  the  concerns  and  secrets  of  the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart 's-core  of  the 
city;  the  stronghold  of  true  John  Bullism.  It  is  a  fragment 
of  London  as  it  was  in  its  better  days,  with  its  antiquated 
folks  and  fashions.  Here  flourish  in  great  preservation 
many  of  the  holyday  games  and  customs  of  yore.  The  in- 
habitants most  religiously  eat  pancakes  on  Shrove-Tuesday ; 
hot-cross-buns  on  Good  Friday,  and  roast  goose  at  Michael- 
mas; they  send  love-letters  on  Valentine's  Day;  burn  the 
Pope  on  the  Fifth  of  November,  and  kiss  all  the  girls  under 
the  mistletoe  at  Christmas.  Roast  beef  and  plum-pudding 
are  also  held  in  superstitious  veneration,  and  port  and  sherry 
maintain  their  grounds  as  the  only  true  English  wines — all 
others  being  considered  vile  outlandish  beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  wonders, 
which  its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of  the  world: 
such  as  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours  all  the  beer 
when  it  tolls;  the  figures  that  strike  the  hours  at  St.  Dun- 


Jl?e  SKetel?-BooK  275 

stan's  clock;  the  Monument ;  the  lions  in  the  Tower ;  and  the 
wooden  giants  in  Guildhall.  They  still  believe  in  dreams 
and  fortune-telling;  and  an  old  woman  that  lives  in  Bull- 
and- Mouth  Street  makes  a  tolerable  subsistence  by  detecting 
stolen  goods,  and  promising  the  girls  good  husbands.  They 
are  apt  to  be  rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets  and  eclipses; 
and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully  at  night,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a 
sure  sign  of  a  death  in  the  place.  There  are  even  many 
ghost  stories  current,  particularly  concerning  the  old  man- 
sion-houses ;  in  several  of  which  it  is  said  strange  sights  are 
sometimes  seen.  Lords  and  ladies,  the  former  in  full-bot- 
tomed wigs,  hanging  sleeves,  and  swords,  the  latter  in  lap- 
pets, stays,  hoops,  and  brocade,  have  been  seen  walking  up 
and  down  the  great  waste  chambers,  on  moonlight  nights; 
and  are  supposed  to  be  the  shades  of  the  ancient  proprietors 
in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men.  One 
of  the  most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall  dry  old  gentle- 
man of  the  name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a  small  apothecary's 
shop.  He  has  a  cadaverous  countenance,  full  of  cavities  and 
projections ;  with  a  brown  circle  round  each  eye,  like  a  pair 
of  horn  spectacles.  He  is  much  thought  of  by  the  old 
women,  who  consider  him  as  a  kind  of  conjurer,  because 
he  has  two  or  three  stuffed  alligators  hanging  up  in  his  shop, 
and  several  snakes  in  bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader  of  al- 
manacs and  newspapers,  and  is  much  given  to  poring  over 
alarming  accounts  of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires,  earthquakes, 
and  volcanic  eruptions;  which  last  phenomena  he  considers 
as  signs  of  the  times.  He  has  always  some  dismal  tale  of 
the  kind  to  deal  out  to  his  customers,  with  their  doses ;  and 
thus  at  the  same  time  puts  both  soul  and  body  into  an  up- 
roar. He  is  a  great  believer  in  omens  and  predictions ;  and 
has  the  prophecies  of  Robert  Nixon  and  Mother  Shipton  by 
heart.  No  man  can  make  so  much  out  of  an  eclipse,  or  even 
an  unusually  dark  day;  and  he  shook  the  tail  of  the  last 
comet  over  the  heads  of  his  customers  and  disciples,  until 
they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their  wits.  He  has  lately 


276  U/orKs  of  U7asl?ir)<$toi) 

got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or  prophecy,  on  which  he  has 
been  unusually  eloquent.  There  has  been  a  saying  current 
among  the  ancient  Sybils,  who  treasure  up  these  things,  that 
when  the  grasshopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange  shook 
hands  with  the  dragon  on  the  'top  of  Bow  Church  steeple, 
fearful  events  would  take  place.  This  strange  conjunction, 
it  seems,  has  as  strangely  come  to  pass.  The  same  architect 
has  been  engaged  lately  on  the  repairs  of  the  cupola  of  the 
Exchange,  and  the  steeple  of  Bow  Church;  and,  fearful  to 
relate,  the  dragon  and  the  grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek  by 
jowl,  in  the  yard  of  his  workshop. 

"  Others, ""  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say,  "may  go 
star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in  the  heavens,  but 
here  is  a  conjunction  on  the  earth,  near  at  home,  and  under 
our  own  eyes,  which  surpasses  all  the  signs  and  calculations 
of  astrologers."  Since  these  portentous  weathercocks  have 
thus  laid  their  heads  together,  wonderful  events  had  already 
occurred.  The  good  old  king,  notwithstanding  that  he  had 
lived  eighty-two  years,  had  all  at  once  given  up  the  ghost ; 
another  king  had  mounted  the  throne ;  a  royal  duke  had  died 
suddenly — another,  in  France,  had  been  murdered;  there 
had  been  radical  meetings  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom ;  the 
bloody  scenes  at  Manchester — the  great  plot  in  Cato  Street; 
— and,  above  all,  the  Queen  had  returned  to  England !  All 
these  sinister  events  are  recounted  by  Mr.  Skryme  with  a 
mysterious  look  and  a  dismal  shake  of  the  head ;  and  being 
taken  with  his  drugs,  and  associated  in  the  minds  of  his 
auditors  with  stuffed  sea-monsters,  bottled  serpents,  and  his 
own  visage,  which  is  a  title  page  of  tribulation,  they  have 
spread  great  gloom  through  the  minds  of  the  people  in  Little 
Britain.  They  shake  their  heads  whenever  they  go  by  Bow 
Church,  and  observe  that  they  never  expected  any  good  to 
come  of  taking  down  that  steeple,  which,  in  old  times,  told 
nothing  but  glad  tidings,  as  the  history  of  Whittington  and 
his  cat  bears  witness. 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial  cheese- 
monger, who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  old  family 


277 

mansions,  and  is  as  magnificently  lodged  as  a  round-bellied 
mite  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  own  Cheshires.  Indeed,  he 
is  a  man  of  no  little  standing  and  importance ;  and  his  re- 
nown extends  through  Huggin  Lane,  and  Lad  Lane,  and 
even  unto  Aldermanbury.  His  opinion  is  very  much  taken 
in  the  affairs  of  state,  having  read  the  Sunday  papers  for  the 
last  half  century,  together  with  the  "Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine," Rapin's  "History  of  England,"  and  the  "Naval 
Chronicle."  His  head  is  stored  with  invaluable  maxims 
which  have  borne  the  test  of  time  and  use  for  centuries. 
It  is  his  firm  opinion  that  "it  is  a  moral  impossible,"  so  long 
as  England  is  true  to  herself,  that  anything  can  shake  her: 
and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the  subject  of  the  national  debt; 
which,  somehow  or  other,  he  proves  to  be  a  great  national 
bulwark  aad  blessing.  He  passed  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  the  purlieus  of  Little  Britain,  until  of  late  years,  when, 
having  become  rich,  and  grown  into  the  dignity  of  a  Sunday 
cane,  he  begins  to  take  his  pleasure  and  see  the  world.  He 
has  therefore  made  several  excursions  to  Hampstead,  High- 
gate,  and  other  neighboring  towns,  where  he  has  passed 
whole  afternoons  in  looking  back  upon  the  metropolis  through 
a  telescope,  and  endeavoring  to  descry  the  steeple  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew's. Not  a  stage-coachman  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street 
but  touches  his  hat  as  he  passes;  and  he  is  considered  quite 
a  patron  at  the  coach-office  of  the  Goose  and  Gridiron,  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard.  His  family  have  been  very  urgent  for 
him  to  make  an  expedition  to  Margate,  but  he  has  great 
doubts  of  these  new  gimcracks  the  steamboats,  and  indeed 
thinks  himself  too  advanced  in  life  to  undertake  sea- voyages. 
Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and  divisions, 
and  party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one  tune,  in  consequence  of 
two  rival  "Burial  Societies"  being  set  up  in  the  place.  One 
held  its  meeting  at  the  Swan  and  Horseshoe,  and  was  pat- 
ronized by  the  cheesemonger;  the  other  at  the  Cock  and 
Crown,  under  the  auspices  of  the  apothecary :  it  is  needless 
to  say  that  the  latter  was  the  most  flourishing.  I  have 
passed  an  evening  or  two  at  each,  and  have  acquired  much 


278  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)$toi7 

valuable  information  as  to  the  best  mode  of  being  buried; 
the  comparative  merits  of  churchyards ;  together  with  divers 
hints  on  the  subject  of  patent  iron  coffins.  I  have  heard  the 
question  discussed  in  all  its  bearings,  as  to  the  legality  of  pro- 
hibiting the  latter  on  account  of  their  durability.  The  feuds 
occasioned  by  these  societies  have  happily  died  away  of  late ; 
but  they  were  for  a  long  time  prevailing  themes  of  con- 
troversy, the  people  of  Little  Britain  being  extremely  so- 
licitous of  funeral  honors,  and  of  lying  comfortably  in  their 
graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies,  there  is  a  third  of 
quite  a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw  the  sunshine 
of  good-humor  over  the  whole  neighborhood.  It  meets  once 
a  week  at  a  little  old-fashioned  house,  kept  by  a  jolly  pub- 
lican of  the  name  of  Wagstaff ,  and  bearing  for  insignia  a  re- 
splendent half -moon,  with  a  most  seductive  bunch  of  grapes. 
The  whole  edifice  is  covered  with  inscriptions  to  catch  the 
eye  of  the  thirsty  wayfarer;  such  as  "Truman,  Hanbury 
and  Co.'s  Entire,"  "Wine,  Rum,  and  Brandy  Vaults, "  "Old 
Tom,  Rum,  and  Compounds,"  etc.  This,  indeed,  has  been 
a  temple  of  Bacchus  and  Momus,  from  time  immemorial. 
It  has  always  been  in  the  family  of  the  Wagstaffs,  so  that 
its  history  is  tolerably  preserved  by  the  present  landlord.  It 
was  much  frequented  by  the  gallants  and  cavalieros  of  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  was  looked  into  now  and  then  by  the 
wits  of  Charles  the  Second's  day.  But  .what  Wagstaff  prin- 
cipally prides  himself  upon,  is,  that  Henry  the  Eighth,  in 
one  of  his  nocturnal  rambles,  broke  the  head  of  one  of  his 
ancestors  with  his  famous  walking-staff.  This,  however,  is 
considered  as  rather  a  dubious  and  vainglorious  boast  of  the 
landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here  goes 
by  the  name  of  "The  Roaring  Lads  of  Little  Britain."  They 
abound  in  all  catches,  glees,  and  choice  stories  that  are  tradi- 
tional in  the  place,  and  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  part 
of  the  metropolis.  There  is  a  madcap  undertaker,  who  is  in- 
imitable at  a  merry  song ;  but  the  life  of  the  club,  and  indeed 


279 

the  prime  wit  of  Little  Britain,  is  bully  Wagstaff  himself. 
His  ancestors  were  all  wags  before  him,  and  he  has  inherited 
with  the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes,  which  go  with 
it  from  generation  to  generation  as  heirlooms.  He  is  a  dap- 
per little  fellow,  with  bandy  legs  and  pot  belly,  a  red  face 
with  a  moist  merry  eye,  and  a  little  shock  of  gray  hair  be- 
hind. At  the  opening  of  every  club  night,  he  is  called  in 
to  sing  his  "Confession  of  Faith,"  which  is  the  famous  old 
drinking  trowl  from  Gammer  Gurton's  needle.  He  sings 
it,  to  be  sure,  with  many  variations,  as  he  received  it  from 
his  father's  lips;  for  it  had  been  a  standing  favorite  at  the 
Half -Moon  and  Bunch  of  Grapes  ever  since  it  was  written; 
nay,  he  affirms  that  his  predecessors  have  often  had  the 
honor  of  singing  it  before  the  nobility  and  gentry  at  Christ- 
mas mummeries,  when  Little  Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.* 

*  As  mine  host  of  the  Half -Moon's  Confession  of  Faith  may  not  be 
familiar  to  the  majority  of  readers,  and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  cur- 
rent songs  of  Little  Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its  original  orthography.  I 
would  observe,  that  the  whole  club  always  join  in  the  chorus  with  a 
fearful  thumping  on  the  table  and  clattering  of  pewter  pots. 

"I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Chorus. — "Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 
Both  foot  and  hand  go  colde, 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

"I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brown  toste 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fyre ; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde  I  trowe, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wolde, 


280  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)<$top 

It  would  do  one's  heart  good. to  hear  on  a  club-night  the 
shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song,  and  now  and  then 
the  choral  bursts  of  half  a  dozen  discordant  voices,  which 
issue  from  this  jovial  mansion.  At  such  times  the  street  is 
lined  with  listeners,  who  enjoy  a  delight  equal  to  that  of 
gazing  into  a  confectioner's  window,  or  snuffing  up  the 
steams  of  a  cook-shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great  stir 
and  sensation  in  Little  Britain;  these  are  St.  Bartholomew's 
Fair,  and  the  Lord  Mayor's  day.  During  the  time  of  the 
Fair,  which  is  held  in  the  adjoining  regions  of  Smithfield, 
there  is  nothing  going  on  but  gossiping  and  gadding  about. 
The  late  quiet  streets  of  Little  Britain  are  overrun  with  an 
irruption  of  strange  figures  and  faces;  every  tavern  is  a 
scene  of  rout  and  revel.  The  fiddle  and  the  song  are  heard 
from  the  taproom,  morning,  noon,  and  night;  and  at  each 

I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 
Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Chorus. — "Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etCi 

"And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drynkes  she,  tyll  ye  may  see 

The  teares  run  down  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  shee  trowle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  maulte-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  tooke  my  parte 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Chorus. — "Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

"Now  let  them  drynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  winke 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to. 
And  all  poor  soules  that  have  scowred  bowles, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 

Chorus. — "Back  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc." 


JI?c  Sketel?-BooK  281 

window  may  be  seen  some  group  of  boon  companions,  with 
half -shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  tankard 
in  hand,  fondling  and  prozing,  and  singing  maudlin  songs 
over  their  liquor.  Even  the  sober  decorum  of  private  fam- 
ilies, which,  I  must  say,  is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other  times 
among  my  neighbors,  is  no  proof  against  this  Saturnalia. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  keeping  maid  servants  within 
doors.  Their  brains  are  absolutely  set  madding  with  Punch 
and  the  Puppet  Show;  the  Flying  Horses;  Signior  Polito; 
the  Fire-Eater;  the  celebrated  Mr.  Paap;  and  the  Irish 
Giant.  The  children,  too,  lavish  all  their  holyday  money 
in  toys  and  gilt  gingerbread,  and  fill  the  house  with  the 
Lilliputian  din  of  drums,  trumpets,  and  penny  whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniversary.  The 
Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabitants  of  Little  Britain 
as  the  greatest  potentate  upon  earth ;  his  gilt  coach  with  six 
horses  as  the  summit  of  human  splendor ;  and  his  procession, 
with  all  the  Sheriffs  and  Aldermen  in  his  train,  as  the  grand- 
est of  earthly  pageants.  How  they  exult  in  the  idea  that  the 
King  himself  dare  not  enter  the  city  without  first  knocking 
at  the  gate  of  Temple  Bar,  and  asking  permission  of  the  Lord 
Mayor ;  for  if  he  did,  heaven  and  earth !  there  is  no  knowing 
what  might  be  the  consequence.  The  man  in  armor  who 
rides  before  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  is  the  city  champion,  has 
orders  to  cut  down  everybody  that  offends  against  the  dig- 
nity of  the  city ;  and  then  there  is  the  little  man  with  a  vel- 
vet porringer  on  his  head,  who  sits  at  the  window  of  the  state 
coach  and  holds  the  city  sword,  as  long  as  a  pike-staff — Od's 
blood!  if  he  once  draws  that  sword,  Majesty  itself  is  not  safe! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate,  therefore, 
the  good  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep  in  peace.  Temple 
Bar  is  an  effectual  barrier  against  all  internal  foes ;  and  as 
to  foreign  invasion,  the  Lord  Mayor  has  but  to  throw  him- 
self into  the  Tower,  call  in  the  train  bands,  and  put  the 
standing  army  of  Beef -eaters  under  arms,  and  he  may  bid 
defiance  to  the  world! 

Thus  wrapped  up  hi  its  own  concerns,  its  own  habits,  and 


282  U/orKs  of  U/asf?ir?$top 

its  own  opinions,  Little  Britain  has  long  nourished  as  a  sound 
heart  to  this  great  fungus  metropolis.  I  have  pleased  myself 
with  considering  it  as  a  chosen  spot,  where  the  principles  of 
sturdy  John  Bullism  were  garnered  up,  like  seed-corn,  to  re- 
new the  national  character,  when  it  had  run  to  waste  and 
degeneracy.  I  have  rejoiced  also  in  the  general  spirit  of 
harmony  that  prevailed  throughout  it;  for  though  there 
might  now  and  then  be  a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between 
the  adherents  of  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary,  and 
an  occasional  feud  between  the  burial  societies,  yet  these 
were  but  transient  clouds,  and  soon  passed  away.  The 
neighbors  met  with  good-will,  parted  with  a  shake  of  the 
hand,  and  never  abused  each  other  except  behind  their  backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junketing  parties  at 
which  I  have  been  present ;  where  we  played  at  All-Fours, 
Pope- Joan,  Tom-come-tickle-me,  and  other  choice  old  games : 
and  where  we  sometimes  had  a  good  old  English  country 
dance,  to  the  tune  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly.  Once  a  year 
also  the  neighbors  would  gather  together,  and  go  on  a  gypsy 
party  to  Epping  Forest.  It  would  have  done  any  man's 
heart  good  to  see  the  merriment  that  took  place  here,  as  we 
banqueted  on  the  grass  under  the  trees.  How  we  made  the 
woods  ring  with  bursts  of  laughter  at  the  songs  of  little 
Wagstaff  and  the  merry  undertaker!  After  dinner,  too,  the 
young  folks  would  play  at  blindman's-buff  and  hide-and- 
seek;  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  them  tangled  among  the 
briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine  romping  girl  now  and  then  squeak 
from  among  the  bushes.  The  elder  folks  would  gather  round 
the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary  to  hear  them  talk  poli- 
tics; for  they  generally  brought  out  a  newspaper  in  their 
pockets  to  pass  away  time  in  the  country.  They  would  now 
and  then,  to  be  sure,  get  a  little  warm  in  argument;  but 
their  disputes  were  always  adjusted  by  reference  to  a  worthy 
old  umbrella-maker  in  a  double  chin,  who,  never  exactly 
comprehending  the  subject,  managed,  somehow  or  other,  to 
decide  in  favor  of  both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or  historian, 


The 

are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions.  Luxury  and  inno- 
vation creep  in ;  factions  arise ;  and  families  now  and  then 
spring  up,  whose  ambition  and  intrigues  throw  the  whole 
system  into  confusion.  Thus  in  latter  days  has  the  tranquil- 
lity of  Little  Britain  been  grievously  disturbed,  and  its  golden 
simplicity  of  manners  threatened  with  total  subversion,  by  the 
aspiring  family  of  a  retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among  the  most 
thriving  and  popular  in  the  neighborhood :  the  Miss  Lambs 
were  the  belles  of  Little  Britain,  and  everybody  was  pleased 
when  old  Lamb  had  made  money  enough  to  shut  up  shop 
and  put  his  name  on  a  brass  plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evil 
hour,  however,  one  of  the  Miss  Lambs  had  the  honor  of  be- 
ing a  lady  in  attendance  on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her  grand 
annual  ball,  on  which  occasion  she  wore  three  towering  ostrich 
feathers  on  her  head.  The  family  never  got  over  it;  they 
were  immediately  smitten  with  a  passion  for  high  life ;  set 
up  a  one-horse  carriage,  put  a  bit  of  gold  lace  round  the 
errand-boy's  hat,  and  have  been  the  talk  and  detestation  of 
the  whole  neighborhood  ever  since.  They  could  no  longer 
be  induced  to  play  at  Pope- Joan  or  blindman's-buff;  they 
could  endure  no  dances  but  quadrilles,  which  nobody  had 
ever  heard  of  in  Little  Britain ;  and  they  took  to  reading 
novels,  talking  bad  French,  and  playing  upon  the  piano. 
Their  brother,  too,  who  had  been  articled  to  an  attorney,  set 
up  for  a  dandy  and  a  critic,  characters  hitherto  unknown  in 
these  parts;  and  he  confounded  the  worthy  folks  exceed- 
ingly by  talking  about  Kean,  the  Opera,  and  the  "Edinbro' 
Review. ' ' 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball,  to 
which  they  neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old  neighbors; 
but  they  had  a  great  deal  of  genteel  company  from  Theo- 
bald's Road,  Red-lion  Square,  and  other  parts  toward  the 
west.  There  were  several  beaux  of  their  brother's  acquaint- 
ance from  Gray's  Inn  Lane  and  Hatton  Garden;  and  not 
less  than  three  Aldermen's  ladies  with  their  daughters.  This 
was  not  to  be  forgotten  or  forgiven.  All  Little  Britain  was 


284  U/orKs  of 

in  an  uproar  with  the  smacking  of  whips,  the  lashing  of  mis- 
erable horses,  and  the  rattling  and  jingling  of  hackney- 
coaches.  The  gossips  of  the  neighborhood  might  be  seen 
popping  their  nightcaps  out  at  every  window,  watching  the 
crazy  vehicles  rumble  by ;  and  there  was  a  knot  of  virulent 
old  cronies  that  kept  a  lookout  from  a  house  just  opposite 
the  retired  butcher's,  and  scanned  and  criticised  every  one 
that  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and  the 
whole  neighborhood  declared  they  would  have  nothing  more 
to  say  to  the  Lambs.  It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Lamb,  when  she 
had  no  engagements  with  her  quality  acquaintance,  would 
give  little  humdrum  tea  junketings  to  some  of  her  old  cronies, 
"quite,"  as  she  would  say,  "in  a  friendly  way" ;  and  it  is 
equally  true  that  her  invitations  were  always  accepted,  in 
spite  of  all  previous  vows  to  the  contrary.  Nay,  the  good 
ladies  would  sit  and  be  delighted  with  the  music  of  the  Miss 
Lambs,  who  would  condescend  to  thrum  an  Irish  melody  for 
them  on  the  piano;  and  they  would  listen  with  wonderful  in- 
terest to  Mrs.  Lamb's  anecdotes  of  Alderman  Plunket's  fam- 
ily of  Portsokenward,  and  the  Miss  Timberlakes,  the  rich 
heiresses  of  Crutched-Friars ;  but  then  they  relieved  their 
consciences,  and  averted  the  reproaches  of  their  confederates, 
by  canvassing  at  the  next  gossiping  convocation  everything 
that  had  passed,  and  pulling  the  Lambs  and  their  rout  all  to 
pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made  fash- 
ionable was  the  retired  butcher  himself.  Honest  Lamb,  in 
spite  of  the  meekness  of  his  name,  was  a  rough  hearty  old 
fellow,  with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of  black  hair  like  a 
shoebrush,  and  a  broad  face  mottled  like  his  own  beef.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  daughters  always  spoke  of  him  as  the 
"old  gentleman,"  addressed  him  as  "papa,"  in  tones  of  in- 
finite softness,  and  endeavored  to  coax  him  into  a  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  and  other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do  what 
they  might,  there  was  no  keeping  down  the  butcher.  His 
sturdy  nature  would  break  through  all  their  glozings.  He 


Tl?e  SKetel?-BooK  285 

had  a  hearty  vulgar  good-humor  that  was  irrepressible.  His 
very  jokes  made  his  sensitive  daughters  shudder;  and  he 
persisted  in  wearing  his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a  morning,  dining 
at  two  o'clock,  and  having  a  "bit  of  sausage  with  his  tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity  of 
his  family.  He  found  his  old  comrades  gradually  growing 
cold  and  civil  to  him;  no  longer  laughing  at  his  jokes;  and 
now  and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at  "some  people,'*  and  a 
hint  about  "quality  binding."  This  both  nettled  and  per- 
plexed the  honest  butcher;  and  his  wife  and  daughters,  with 
the  consummate  policy  of  the  shrewder  sex,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  circumstances,  at  length  prevailed  upon  him  to 
give  up  his  afternoon  pipe  and  tankard  at  Wagstaff's;  to  sit 
after  dinner  by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port — a  liquor 
he  detested — and  to  nod  in  his  chair,  in  solitary  and  dismal 
gentility. 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting  along  the 
streets  in  French  bonnets,  with  unknown  beaux ;  and  talking 
and  laughing  so  loud  that  it  distressed  the  nerves  of  every 
good  lady  within  hearing.  They  even  went  so  far  as  to  at- 
tempt patronage,  and  actually  induced  a  French  dancing- 
master  to  set  up  in  the  neighborhood;  but  the  worthy  folks 
of  Little  Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and  did  so  persecute  the  poor 
Gaul  that  he  was  fain  to  pack  up  fiddle  and  dancing-pumps, 
and  decamp  with  such  precipitation  that  he  absolutely  forgot 
to  pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that  all  this 
fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community  was  merely 
the  overflowing  of  their  zeal  for  good  old  English  manners, 
and  their  horror  of  innovation ;  and  I  applauded  the  silent 
contempt  they  were  so  vociferous  in  expressing  for  upstart 
pride,  French  fashions,  and  the  Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to 
say  that  I  soon  perceived  the  infection  had  taken  hold ;  and 
that  my  neighbors,  after  condemning,  were  beginning  to  fol- 
low their  example.  I  overheard  my  landlady  importuning 
her  husband  to  let  their  daughters  have  one  quarter  at  French 
and  music,  and  that  they  might  take  a  few  lessons  in  qua- 


286  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii7$toi) 

drilles ;  I  even  saw,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  less 
than  five  French  bonnets,  precisely  like  those  of  the  Miss 
Lambs,  parading  about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  gradually 
die  away;  that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of  the  neighbor- 
hood; might  die,  or  might  run  away  with  attorneys'  appren- 
tices; and  that  quiet  and  simplicity  might  be  again  restored 
to  the  community.  But  unluckily  a  rival  power  arose.  An 
opulent  oil-man  died,  and  left  a  widow  with  a  large  jointure 
and  a  family  of  buxom  daughters.  The  young  ladies  had 
long  been  repining  in  secret  at  the  parsimony  of  a  prudent 
father,  which  kept  down  all  their  elegant  aspirings.  Their 
ambition  being  now  no  longer  restrained,  broke  out  into  a 
blaze,  and  they  openly  took  the  field  against  the  family  of 
the  butcher.  It  is  true  that  the  Lambs,  having  had  the  first 
start,  had  naturally  an  advantage  of  them  in  the  fashionable 
career.  They  could  speak  a  little  bad  French,  play  the  piano, 
dance  quadrilles,  and  had  formed  high  acquaintances ;  but  the 
Trotters  were  not  to  be  distanced.  When  the  Lambs  ap- 
peared with  two  feathers  in  their  hats,  the  Miss  Trotters 
mounted  four,  and  of  twice  as  fine  colors.  If  the  Lambs 
gave  a  dance,  the  Trotters  were  sure  not  to  be  behindhand ; 
and  though  they  might  not  boast  of  as  good  company,  yet 
they  had  double  the  number,  and  were  twice  as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  itself  into 
fashionable  factions,  under  the  banners  of  these  two  families. 
The  old  games  of  Pope- Joan  and  Tom-come-tickle-me  are  en- 
tirely discarded ;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  up  an  hon- 
est country-dance ;  and  on  my  attempting  to  kiss  a  young 
lady  under  the  mistletoe  last  Christmas,  I  was  indignantly 
repulsed;  the  Miss  Lambs  having  pronounced  it  "shocking 
vulgar."  Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken  out  as  to  the  most 
fashionable  part  of  Little  Britain;  the  Lambs  standing  up 
for  the  dignity  of  Cross- Keys  Square,  and  the  Trotters  for 
the  vicinity  of  St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and  internal 
dissensions,  like  the  great  empire  whose  name  it  bears;  and 


Jl?e  SKetcl?-Book  287 

what  will  be  the  result  would  puzzle  the  apothecary  himself, 
with  all  his  talent  at  prognostics,  to  determine ;  though  I  ap- 
prehend that  it  will  terminate  in  the  total  downfall  of  genuine 
John  Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant  to  me. 
Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  observed  before,  rather  an  idle 
good-for-nothing  personage,  I  have  been  considered  the  only 
gentleman  by  profession  hi  the  place.  I  stand  therefore  in 
high  favor  with  both  parties,  and  have  to  hear  all  their  cab- 
inet councils  and  mutual  backbitings.  As  I  am  too  civil  not 
to  agree  with  the  ladies  on  all  occasions,  I  have  committed 
myself  most  horribly  with  both  parties,  by  abusing  their  op- 
ponents. I  might  manage  to  reconcile  this  to  my  conscience, 
which  is  a  truly  accommodating  one,  but  I  cannot  to  my  ap- 
prehensions— if  the  Lambs  and  Trotters  ever  come  to  a  recon- 
ciliation, and  compare  notes,  I  am  ruined! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in  time, 
and  am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest  in  this  great 
city,  where  old  English  manners  are  still  kept  up;  where 
French  is  neither  eaten,  drank,  danced,  nor  spoken;  and 
where  there  are  no  fashionable  families  of  retired  tradesmen. 
This  found,  I  will,  like  a  veteran  rat,  hasten  away  before  I 
have  an  old  house  about  my  ears — bid  a  long,  though  a  sor- 
rowful adieu  to  my  present  abode — and  leave  the  rival  fac- 
tions of  the  Lambs  and  the  Trotters  to  divide  the  distracted 
empire  of  Little  Britain. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

"Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 
Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakespeare  would  di 
The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head."— GARRICK 

To  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide  world 
which  he  can  truly  call  his  own,  there  is  a  momentary  feel- 
ing of  something  like  independence  and  territorial  conse- 


of 

quence,  when,  after  a  weary  day's  travel,  he  kicks  off  his 
boots,  thrusts  his  feet  into  slippers,  and  stretches  himself 
before  an  inn  fire.  Let  the  world  without  go  as  it  may ;  let 
kingdoms  rise  or  fall,  so  long  as  he  has  the  wherewithal  to 
pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for  the  time  being,  the  very  monarch  of 
all  he  surveys.  The  armchair  is  his  throne,  the  poker  his 
scepter,  and  the  little  parlor,  of  some  twelve  feet  square,  his 
undisputed  empire.  It  is  a  morsel  of  certainty,  snatched 
from  the  midst  of  the  uncertainties  of  lif e ;  it  is  a  sunny  mo- 
ment gleaming  out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day ;  and  he  who  has 
advanced  some  way  on  the  pilgrimage  of  existence  knows 
the  importance  of  husbanding  even  morsels  and  moments  of 
enjoyment.  "Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?" 
thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  lolled  back  in  my  elbow- 
chair,  and  cast  a  complacent  look  about  the  little  parlor  of 
the  Red  Horse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakespeare  were  just  passing  through 
my  mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from  the  tower  of  the 
church  in  which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid,  putting  in  her  smiling 
face,  inquired,  with  a  hesitating  air,  whether  I  had  rung.  I 
understood  it  as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire. 
My  dream  of  absolute  dominion  was  at  an  end;  so  abdicat- 
ing my  throne,  like  a  prudent  potentate,  to  avoid  being  de- 
posed, and  putting  the  Stratford  Guide-Book  under  my  arm,, 
as  a  pillow  companion,  I  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  all  night 
of  Shakespeare,  the  Jubilee,  and  David  Garrick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening  mornings 
which  we  sometimes  have  in  early  spring;  for  it  was  about 
the  middle  of  March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  sud- 
denly given  way;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its  last  gasp; 
and  a  mild  air  came  stealing  from  the  west,  breathing  the 
breath  of  life  into  nature,  and  wooing  every  bud  and  flower 
to  burst  forth  into  fragrance  and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage.  My 
first  visit  was  to  the  house  where  Shakespeare  was  born,  and 
where,  according  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  his 


289 

father's  craft  of  wool-combing.  It  is  a  small  mean-looking 
edifice  of  wood  and  plaster,  a  true  nestling-place  of  genius, 
which  seems  to  delight  in  hatching  its  offspring  in  by-cor- 
ners. The  walls  of  its  squalid  chambers  are  covered  with 
names  and  inscriptions  in  every  language,  by  pilgrims  of  all 
nations,  ranks,  and  conditions,  from  the  prince  to  the  peas- 
ant; and  present  a  simple,  but  striking  instance  of  the 
spontaneous  and  universal  homage  of  mankind  to  the  great 
poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  in  a  frosty 
red  face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye,  and  gar- 
nished with  artificial  locks  of  flaxen  hair,  curling  from  under 
an  exceedingly  dirty  cap.  She  was  peculiarly  assiduous  in 
exhibiting  the  relics  with  which  this,  like  all  other  celebrated 
shrines,  abounds.  There  was  the  shattered  stock  of  the  very 
matchlock  with  which  Shakespeare  shot  the  deer,  on  his 
poaching  exploits.  There,  too,  was  his  tobacco-box;  which 
proves  that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of  Sir  "Walter  Raleigh ;  the 
sword  also  with  which  he  played  Hamlet ;  and  the  identical 
lantern  with  which  Friar  Laurence  discovered  Romeo  and 
Juliet  at  the  tomb!  There  was  an  'ample  supply  also  of 
Shakespeare's  mulberry-tree,  which  seems  to  have  as  ex- 
traordinary powers  of  self -multiplication  as  the  wood  of  the 
true  cross ;  of  which  there  is  enough  extant  to  build  a  ship 
of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  however,  is  Shake- 
speare's chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney-nook  of  a  small 
gloomy  chamber,  just  behind  what  was  his  father's  shop. 
Here  he  may  many  a  time  have  sat  when  a  boy,  watching 
the  slowly-revolving  spit,  with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin ; 
or  of  an  evening,  listening  to  the  crones  and  gossips  of  Strat- 
ford, dealing  forth  churchyard  tales  and  legendary  anecdotes 
of  the  troublesome  times  of  England.  In  this  chair  it  is  the 
custom  of  every  one  who  visits  the  house  to  sit :  whether  this 
be  done  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the  inspiration  of 
the  bard,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say;  I  merely  mention  the  fact; 
and  mine  hostess  privately  assured  me  that,  though  built  of 
*  *  *13  VOL.  I. 


290  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi?  Iruir)<$ 

solid  oak,  such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that  the 
chair  had  to  be  new-bottomed  at  least  once  in  three  years. 
It  is  worthy  of  notice  also,  in  the  history  of  this  extraor- 
dinary chair,  that  it  partakes  something  of  the  volatile  nat- 
ure of  the  Santa  Casa  of  Loretto,  or  the  flying  chair  of  the 
Arabian  enchanter ;  for  though  sold  some  few  years  since  to 
a  northern  princess,  yet,  strange  to  tell,  it  has  found  its  way 
back  again  to  the  old  chimney-corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am  very 
willing  to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  pleasant  and  costs 
nothing.  I  am  therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics,  legends, 
and  local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and  great  men ;  and  would  ad- 
vise all  travelers  who  travel  for  their  gratification  to  be  the 
same.  What  is  it  to  us  whether  these  stories  be  true  or  false, 
so  long  as  we  can  persuade  ourselves  into  the  belief  of  them, 
and  enjoy  all  the  charm  of  the  reality?  There  is  nothing 
like  resolute  good-humored  credulity  in  these  matters;  and 
on  this  occasion  I  went  even  so  far  as  willingly  to  believe 
the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal  descent  from  the  poet, 
when,  unluckily  for  my  faith,  she  put  into  my  hands  a  play 
of  her  own  composition,  which  set  all  belief  in  her  consan- 
guinity at  defiance. 

From  the  birthplace  of  Shakespeare  a  few  paces  brought 
me  to  his  grave.  He  lies  buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  parish 
church,  a  large  and  venerable  pile,  mouldering  with  age,  but 
richly  ornamented.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  011 
an  embowered  point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens 
from  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  Its  situation  is  quiet  and  re- 
tired :  the  river  runs  murmuring  at  the  foot  of  the  church- 
yard, and  the  elms  which  grow  upon  its1  banks  droop  their 
branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  An  avenue  of  limes,  the 
boughs  of  which  are  curiously  interlaced,  so  as  to  form  in 
summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads  up  from  the  gate 
of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch.  The  graves  are  overgrown 
with  grass;  the  gray  tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly  sunk 
into  the  earth,  are  half -covered  with  moss,  which  has  like- 
wise tinted  the  reverend  old  building.  Small  birds  have  built 


Jl?e  8Ketel?-Book  291 

their  nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls,  and 
keep  up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirping ;  and  rooks  are  sail- 
ing and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the  gray-headed 
sexton,  and  accompanied  him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the 
church.  He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for  eighty 
years,  and  seemed  still  to  consider  himself  a  vigorous  man, 
with  the  trivial  exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of 
his  legs  for  a  few  years  past.  His  dwelling  was  a  cottage, 
looking  out  upon  the  Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows;  and 
was  a  picture  of  that  neatness,  order,  and  comfort,  which 
pervade  the  humblest  dwellings  in  this  country.  A  low 
whitewashed  room,  with  a  stone  floor  carefully  scrubbed, 
served  for  parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall.  Rows  of  pewter  and 
earthen  dishes  glittered  along  the  dresser.  On  an  old  oaken 
table,  well  rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  family  Bible  and 
prayer-book,  and  the  drawer  contained  the  family  library, 
composed  of  about  half  a  score  of  well-thumbed  volumes. 
An  ancient  clock,  that  important  article  of  cottage  furniture, 
ticked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room;  with  a  bright  warm- 
ing-pan hanging  on  one  side  of  it,  and  the  old  man's  horn- 
handled  Sunday  cane  on  the  other.  The  fireplace,  as  usual, 
was  wide  and  deep  enough  to  admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its 
jambs.  In  one  corner  sat  the  old  man's  granddaughter  sew- 
ing, a  pretty  blue-eyed  girl — and  in  the  opposite  corner  was 
a  superannuated  crony,  whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of 
John  Ange,  and  who,  I  found,  had  been  his  companion  from 
childhood.  They  had  played  together  in  infancy ;  they  had 
worked  together  in  manhood ;  they  were  now  tottering  about 
and  gossiping  away  the  evening  of  life ;  and  in  a  short  time 
they  will  probably  •  be  buried  together  in  the  neighboring 
churchyard.  It  is  not  often  that  we  see  two  streams  of  ex- 
istence running  thus  evenly  and  tranquilly  side  by  side;  it 
is  only  in  such  quiet  "bosom  scenes"  of  life  that  they  are  to 
be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes  of  the 
bard  from  these  ancient  chroniclers;  but  they  had  nothing 


of  U/asl?ii>$toi? 

new  to  impart.  The  long  interval,  during  which  Shake- 
speare's writings  lay  in  comparative  neglect,  has  spread  its 
shadow  over  history;  and  it  is  his  good  or  evil  lot  that 
scarcely  anything  remains  to  his  biographers  but  a  scanty 
handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  employed  as  car- 
penters, on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated  Stratford 
jubilee,  and  they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of 
the  fete,  who  superintended  the  arrangements,  and  who,  ac- 
cording to  the  sexton,  was  "a  short  punch  man,  very  lively 
and  bustling."  John  Ange  had  assisted  also  in  cutting 
down  Shakespeare's  mulberry  -  tree,  of  which  he  had  a 
morsel  in  his  pocket  for  sale ;  no  doubt  a  sovereign  quick- 
ener  of  literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak 
very  dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the  Shake- 
speare house.  John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I  mentioned 
her  valuable  and  inexhaustible  collection  of  relics,  particularly 
her  remains  of  the  mulberry-tree;  and  the  old  sexton  even 
expressed  a  doubt  as  to  Shakespeare  having  been  born  in  her 
house.  I  soon  discovered  that  he  looked  upon  her  mansion 
with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  the  poet's  tomb;  the  latter 
having  comparatively  but  few  visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  his- 
torians differ  at  the  very  outset,  and  mere  pebbles  make  the 
stream  of  truth  diverge  into  different  channels,  even  at  the 
fountain-head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue  of  limes, 
and  entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly  ornamented  with 
carved  doors  of  massive  oak.  The  interior  is  spacious,  and 
the  architecture  and  embellishments  superior  to  those  of  most 
country  churches.  There  are  several  ancient  monuments  of 
nobility  and  gentry,  over  some  of  which  hang  funeral  escutch- 
eons, and  banners  dropping  piecemeal  from  the  walls.  The 
tomb  of  Shakespeare  is  in  the  chancel.  The  place  is  solemn 
and  sepulchral.  Tall  elms  wave  before  the  pointed  windows, 
and*  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short  distance  from  the  walls, 
keeps  up  a  low  perpetual  murmur.  A  flat  stone  marks  the 


293 

spot  where  the  bard  is  buried.  There  are  four  lines  inscribed 
on  it,  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  and  which  have 
in  them  something  extremely  awful.  If  they  are  indeed  his 
own,  they  show  that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of  the  grave 
which  seems  natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and  thoughtful  minds : 

"Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake,  forbeare 
To  dig-  the  dust  inclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  is  a  bust  of 
Shakespeare,  put  up  shortly  after  his  death,  and  considered 
as  a  resemblance.  The  aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with  a 
finely  arched  forehead ;  and  I  thought  I  could  read  in  it  clear 
indications  of  that  cheerful,  social  disposition,  by  which  he 
was  as  much  characterized  among  his  contemporaries  as  by 
the  vastness  of  his  genius.  The  inscription  mentions  his  age 
at  the  time  of  his  decease — fifty-three  years;  an  untimely 
death  for  the  world :  for  what  fruit  might  not  have  been  ex- 
pected from  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  sheltered,  as 
it  was,  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  flourishing 
in  the  sunshine  of  popular  and  royal  favor! 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been  without  its 
effect.  It  has  prevented  the  removal  of  his  remains  from 
the  bosom  of  his  native  place  to  Westminster  Abbey,  which 
was  at  one  time  contemplated.  A  few  years  since  also,  as 
some  laborers  were  digging  to  make  an  adjoining  vault,  the 
earth  caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  vacant  space  almost  like  an 
arch,  through  which  one  might  have  reached  into  his  grave. 
No  one,  however,  presumed  to  meddle  with  the  remains  so 
awfully  guarded  by  a  malediction ;  and  lest  any  of  the  idle 
or  the  curious,  or  any  collector  of  relics,  should  be  tempted 
to  commit  depredations,  the  old  sexton  kept  watch  over  the 
place  for  two  days,  until  the  vault  was  finished  and  the 
aperture  closed  again.  He  told  me  that  he  had  made  bold 
to  look  in  at  the  hole,  but  could  see  neither  coffin  nor  bones ; 
nothing  but  dust.  It  was  something,  I  thought,  to  have 
seen  the  dust  of  Shakespeare. 


294  U/orl^s  of  U/ast?ir><?top 

Next  to  his  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his  favorite  daugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his  family.  On  a  tomb  close 
by,  also,  is  a  full-length  effigy  of  his  old  friend  John  Combe, 
of  usurious  memory ;  on  whom  he  is  said  to  have  written  a 
ludicrous  epitaph.  There  are  other  monuments  around,  but 
the  mind  refuses  to  dwell  on  anything  that  is  not  connected 
with  Shakespeare.  His  idea  pervades  the  place — the  whole 
pile  seems  but  as  his  mausoleum.  The  feelings,  no  longer 
checked  and  thwarted  by  doubt,  here  indulge  in  perfect  con- 
fidence :  other  traces  of  him  may  be  false  or  dubious,  but  here 
is  palpable  evidence  and  absolute  certainty.  As  I  trod  the 
sounding  pavement,  there  was  something  intense  and  thrilling 
in  the  idea  that,  in  very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shakespeare  were 
mouldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I 
could  prevail  upon  myself  to  leave  the  place ;  and  as  I  passed 
through  the  churchyard,  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one  of  the 
yew-trees,  the  only  relic  that  I  have  brought  from  Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pilgrim's  devo- 
tion, but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old  family-seat  of  the  Lucys 
at  Charlecot,  and  to  ramble  through  the  park  where  Shake- 
speare, in  company  with  some  of  the  roisterers  of  Stratford,  com- 
mitted his  youthful  offense  of  deer-stealing.  In  this  hare-brained 
exploit  we  are  told  that  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to 
the  keeper's  lodge,  where  he  remained  all  night  in  doleful  cap- 
tivity. When  brought  into  the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
his  treatment  must  have  been  galling  and  humiliating ;  for  it 
so  wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to  produce  a  rough  pasquinade, 
which  was  affixed  to  the  park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lampoon: 
"A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 

He  thinks  himself  great; 

Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 

We  allow  by  his  ears  with  but  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it." 


295 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the  Knight  so 
incensed  him  that  he  applied  to  a  lawyer  at  Warwick  to  put 
the  severity  of  the  laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming  deer- 
stalker. Shakespeare  did  not  wait  to  brave  the  united  puis- 
sance of  a  Knight  of  the  Shire  and  a  country  attorney.  He 
forthwith  abandoned  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Avon,  and 
his  paternal  trade;  wandered  away  to  London;  became  a 
hanger-on  to  the  theaters  j  then  an  actor ;  and,  finally,  wrote 
for  the  stage;  and  thus,  through  the  persecution  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  Stratford  lost  an  indifferent  wool-comber, 
and  the  world  gained  an  immortal  poet.  He  retained,  how- 
ever, for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh  treatment  of  the 
Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  revenged  himself  in  his  writings ;  but 
in  the  sportive  way  of  a  good-natured  mind.  Sir  Thomas  is 
said  to  be  the  original  of  Justice  Shallow,  and  the  satire  is 
slyly  fixed  upon  him  by  the  Justice's  armorial  bearings, 
which,  like  those  of  the  Knight,  had  white  luces  *  in  the 
quarterings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biographers  to 
soften  and  explain  away  this  early  transgression  of  the  poet; 
but  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  those  thoughtless  exploits  natural 
to  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind.  Shakespeare,  when 
young,  had  doubtless  all  the  wildness  and  irregularity  of 
an  ardent,  undisciplined,  and  undirected  genius.  The  poetic 
temperament  has  naturally  something  in  it  of  the  vagabond. 
When  left  to  itself,  it  runs  loosely  and  wildly,  and  delights 
in  everything  eccentric  and  licentious.  It  is  often  a  turn-up 
of  a  die,  in  the  gambling  freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural 
genius  shall  turn  out  a  great  rogue  or  a  great  poet ;  and  had 
not  Shakespeare's  mind  fortunately  taken  a  literary  bias,  he 
might  have  as  daringly  transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all 
dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when  running,  like 
an  unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighborhood  of  Stratford,  he 

*  The  luce  is  a  pike  or  jack,  and  abounds  in  the  Avon,  about 
Charlecot. 


296  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$tOD  Irvir>$ 

was  to  be  found  in  the  company  of  all  kinds  of  odd  and 
anomalous  characters;  that  he  associated  with  all  the  mad- 
caps of  the  place,  and  was  one  of  those  unlucky  urchins  at 
mention  of  whom  old  men  shake  their  heads  and  predict 
that  they  will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows.  To  him  the 
poaching  in  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like  a 
foray  to  a  Scottish  knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and  as  yet 
untamed,  imagination,  as  something  delightfully  adventur- 
ous.* 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  surrounding  park 
still  remain  in  the  possession  of  the  Lucy  family,  and  are 

*  A  proof  of  Shakespeare's  random  habits  and  associates  in  his 
youthful  days  may  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote,  picked  up  at 
Stratford  by  the  elder  Ireland,  and  mentioned  in  his  "Picturesque 
Views  on  the  Avon." 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little  market 
town  of  Bedford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two  societies  of  the  village  yeo- 
manry used  to  meet,  under  the  appellation  of  the  Bedford  topers,  and 
to  challenge  the  lovers  of  good  ale  of  the  neighboring  villages  to  a 
contest  of  drinking.  Among  others,  the  people  of  Stratford  were 
called  out  to  prove  the  strength  of  their  heads;  and  in  the  number  of 
the  champions  was  Shakespeare,  who,  in  spite  of  the  proverb  that 
"they  who  drink  beer  will  think  beer,"  was  as  true  to  his  ale  as  Fal- 
staff  to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Stratford  was  staggered  at  the  first 
onset,  and  sounded  a  retreat  while  they  had  yet  legs  to  carry  them  off 
the  field.  They  had  scarcely  marched  a  mile,  when,  their  legs  failing 
them,  they  were  forced  to  lie  down  under  a  crab-tree,  where  they 
passed  the  night.  It  is  still  standing,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  Shake- 
speare's tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  proposed  re- 
turning to  Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying  he  had  had  enough,  having 
drunk  with 

"Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Hilbro',  Hungry  Grafton, 
Drudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  drunken  Bedford." 

"The  villages  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,  "still  bear  the  epithets 
thus  given  them:  the  people  of  Pebworth  are  still  famed  for  their  skill 
on  the  pipe  and  tabor;  Hillborough  is  now  called  Haunted  Hillborough; 
and  Grafton  is  famous  for  the  poverty  of  its  soil." 


297 

peculiarly  interesting  from  being  connected  with  this  whimsi- 
cal but  eventful  circumstance  in  the  scanty  history  of  the 
bard.  As  the  house  stood  at  little  more  than  three  miles' 
distance  from  Stratford,  I  resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedestrian 
visit,  that  I  might  stroll  leisurely  through  some  of  those 
scenes  from  which  Shakespeare  must  have  derived  his  earli- 
est ideas  of  rural  imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless;  but  English 
scenery  is  always  verdant,  and  the  sudden  change  in  the 
temperature  of  the  weather  was  surprising  in  its  quickening 
effects  upon  the  landscape.  It  was  inspiring  and  animating 
to  witness  this  first  awakening  of  spring;  to  feel  its  warm 
breath  stealing  over  the  senses ;  to  see  the  moist  mellow  earth 
beginning  to  put  forth  the  green  sprout  and  the  tender  blade ; 
and  the  trees  and  shrubs,  in  their  reviving  tints  and  bursting 
buds,  giving  the  promise  of  returning  foliage  and  flower. 
The  cold  snowdrop,  that  little  borderer  on  the  skirts  of 
winter,  was  to  be  seen  with  its  chaste  white  blossoms  in  the 
small  gardens  before  the  cottages.  The  bleating  of  the  new- 
dropped  lambs  was  faintly  heard  from  the  fields.  The  spar- 
row twittered  about  the  thatched  eaves  and  budding  hedges; 
the  robin  threw  a  livelier  note  into  his  late  querulous  wintry 
strain ;  and  the  lark,  springing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of 
the  meadow,  towered  away  into  the  bright  fleecy  cloud,  pour- 
ing forth  torrents  of  melody.  As  I  watched  the  little  song- 
ster, mounting  up  higher  and  higher,  until  his  body  was  a 
mere  speck  on  the  white  bosom  of  the  cloud,  while  the  ear  was 
still  filled  with  his  music,  it  called  to  mind  Shakespeare's  ex- 
quisite little  song  in  "Cymbeline"  : 

"Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heav'n's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies. 

"And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise." 


298  U/orks  of  U/asl?ir?<$toi)  Irvir>$ 

Indeed,  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poetic  ground: 
everything  is  associated  with  the  idea  of  Shakespeare. 
Every  old  cottage  that  I  saw,  I  fancied  into  some  resort 
of  his  boyhood,  where  he  had  acquired  his  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  rustic  lif  e  and  manners,  and  heard  those  legendary 
tales  and  wild  superstitions  which  he  has  woven  like  witch- 
craft into  his  dramas.  For  in  his  time,  we  are  told,  it  was 
a  popular  amusement  in  winter  evenings  "to  sit  round  the 
fire,  and  tell  merry  tales  of  errant  knights,  queens,  lovers, 
lords,  ladies,  giants,  dwarfs,  thieves,  cheaters,  witches,  fairies, 
goblins,  and  friars."  * 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in  sight  of  the  Avon, 
which  made  a  variety  of  the  most  fanciful  doublings  and 
windings  through  a  wide  and  fertile  valley :  sometimes  glit- 
tering from  among  willows,  which  fringed  its  borders ;  some- 
times disappearing  among  groves,  or  beneath  green  banks; 
and  sometimes  rambling  out  into  full  view,  and  making  an 
azure  sweep  round  a  slope  of  meadow  land.  This  beautiful 
bosom  of  country  is  called  the  Vale  of  the  Red  Horse.  A 
distant  line  of  undulating  blue  hills  seems  to  be  its  boundary, 
while  all  the  soft  intervening  landscape  lies  in  a  manner  en- 
chained in  the  silver  links  of  the  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  miles,  I  turned 
off  into  a  footpath,  which  led  along  the  borders  of  fields  and 
under  hedgerows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park ;  there  was  a 
stile,  however,  for  the  benefit  of  the  pedestrian;  there  being 
a  public  right  of  way  through  the  grounds.  I  delight  in  these 
hospitable  estates,  in  which  every  one  has  a  kind  of  property 
— at  least  as  far  as  the  footpath  is  concerned.  It  in  some 


*  Scot,  in  his  "Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,"  enumerates  a  host  of 
these  fireside  fancies.  "And  they  have  so  fraid  us  with  bull-beggars, 
spirits,  witches,  urchins,  elves,  hags,  fairies,  satyrs,fpans,  fauns,  syrens, 
kit  with  the  can  sticke,  tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfes,  giantes,  imps,  cal- 
cars,  conjurors,  nymphes,  changelings,  incubus,  Robin-good-fellow,  the 
sporne,  the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke,  the  hellwaine,  the  fier  drake,  the 
puckle,  Tom  Thombe,  hobgoblins,  Tom  Tumbler,  boneless,  and  such 
other  bugs,  that  we  were  afraid  of  our  own  shadowes." 


299 

measure  reconciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot,  and,  what  is  more, 
to  the  better  lot  of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  have  parks  and 
pleasure  -  grounds  thrown  open  for  his  recreation.  He 
breathes  the  pure  air  as  freely,  and  lolls  as  luxuriously 
under  the  shade,  as  the  lord  of  the  soil ;  and  if  he  has  not 
the  privilege  of  calling  all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not, 
at  the  same  time,  the  trouble  of  paying  for  it  and  keeping  it 
in  order. 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of  oaks  and 
elms,  whose  vast  size  bespoke  the  growth  of  centuries.  The 
wind  sounded  solemnly  among  their  branches,  and  the  rooks 
cawed  from  their  hereditary  nests  in  the  treetops.  The  eye 
ranged  through  a  long  lessening  vista,  with  nothing  to  inter- 
rupt the  view  but  a  distant  statue ;  and  a  vagrant  deer  stalk- 
ing like  a  shadow  across  the  opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  avenues  that 
has  the  effect  of  Gothic  architecture,  not  merely  from  the 
pretended  similarity  of  form,  but  from  their  bearing  the  evi- 
dence of  long  duration,  and  of  having  had  their  origin  in 
a  period  of  time  with  which  we  associate  ideas  of  romantic 
grandeur.  They  betoken  also  the  long-settled  dignity  and 
proudly  concentrated  independence  of  an  ancient  family; 
and  I  have  heard  a  worthy  but  aristocratic  old  friend  ob- 
serve, when  speaking  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of  modern 
gentry,  that  "money  could  do  much  with  stone  and  mortar, 
but,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  no  such  thing  as  suddenly 
building  up  an  avenue  of  oaks." 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among  this  rich 
scenery,  and  about  the.  romantic  solitudes  of  the  adjoining 
park  of  Fullbroke,  which  then  formed  a  part  of  the  Lucy 
estate,  that  some  of  Shakespeare's  commentators  have  sup- 
posed he  derived  his  noble  forest  meditations  of  Jacques,  and 
the  enchanting  woodland  pictures  in  "As  You  Like  It."  It 
is  in  lonely  wanderings  through  such  scenes  that  the  mind 
drinks  deep  but  quiet  draughts  of  inspiration,  and  becomes 
intensely  sensible  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  nature.  The 
imagination  kindles  into  reverie  and  rapture ;  vague  but  ex- 


300  U/orks  of  U/asl?ir><jtor>  Irufr><$ 

quisite  images  and  ideas  keep  breaking  upon  it ;  and  we  revel 
in  a  mute  and  almost  incommunicable  luxury  of  thought. 
It  was  in  some  such  mood,  and  perhaps  under  one  of  those 
very  trees  before  me,  which  threw  their  broad  shades  over 
the  grassy  banks  and  quivering  waters  of  the  Avon,  that  the 
poet's  fancy  may  have  sallied  forth  into  that  little  song  which 
breathes  the  very  soul  of  a  rural  voluptuary : 

"Under  the  green- wood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  throat 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither, 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather." 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a  large  build- 
ing of  brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is  in  the  Gothic  style  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  day,  having  been  built  in  the  first  year  of 
her  reign.  The  exterior  remains  very  nearly  in  its  original 
state,  and  may  be  considered  a  fair  specimen  of  the  residence 
of  a  wealthy  country  gentleman  of  those  days.  A  great 
gateway  opens  from  the  park  into  a  kind  of  courtyard  in 
front  of  the  house,  ornamented  with  a  grass-plot,  shrubs, 
and  flower-beds.  The  gateway  is  in  imitation  of  the  ancient 
barbican;  being  a  kind  of  outpost,  and  flanked  by  towers; 
though  evidently  for  mere  ornament,  instead  of  defense. 
The  front  of  the  house  is  completely  in  the  old  style ;  with 
stone  shafted  casements,  a  great  bow- window  of  heavy  stone- 
work, and  a  portal  with  armorial  bearings  over  it,  carved  in 
stone.  At  each  corner  of  the  building  is  an  octagon  tower, 
surmounted  by  a  gilt  ball  and  weathercock. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park,  makes  a  bend 
just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently  sloping  bank,  which  sweeps  down 
from  the  rear  of  the  house.  Large  herds  of  deer  were  feed- 
ing or  reposing  upon  its  borders ;  and  swans  were  sailing 
majestically  upon  its  bosom.  As  I  contemplated  the  vener- 


Tl?e  8Ketol?-Book  301 

able  old  mansion,  I  called  to  mind  Falstaff'e  encomium  on 
Justice  Shallow's  abode,  and  the  affected  indifference  and 
real  vanity  of  the  latter : 

"Falstaff.     You  have  here  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 
"Shallow.    Barren,   barren,   barren;  beggars  all,   beggars  all,  Sir 
John:— marry,  good  air." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the  old  mansion 
in  the  days  of  Shakespeare,  it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness 
and  solitude.  The  great  iron  gateway  that  opened  into  the 
courtyard  was  locked ;  there  was  no  show  of  servants  bust- 
ling about  the  place;  the  deer  gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I 
passed,  being  no  longer  harried  by  the  moss-troopers  of  Strat- 
ford. The  only  sign  of  domestic  life  that  I  met  with  was  a 
white  cat,  stealing  with  wary  look  and  stealthy  pace  toward 
the  stables,  as  if  on  some  nefarious  expedition.  I  must  not 
omit  to  mention  the  carcass  of  a  scoundrel  crow  which  I  saw 
suspended  against  the  barn  wall,  as  it  shows  that  the  Lucys 
still  inherit  that  lordly  abhorrence  of  poachers,  and  maintain 
that  rigorous  exercise  of  territorial  power  which  was  so  strenu- 
ously manifested  in  the  case  of  the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at  length  found 
my  way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which  was  the  everyday  entrance 
to  the  mansion.  I  was  courteously  received  by  a  worthy  old 
housekeeper,  who,  with  the  civility  and  communicativeness  of 
her  order,  showed  me  the  interior  of  the  house.  The  greater 
part  has  undergone  alterations,  and  been  adapted  to  modern 
tastes  and  modes  of  living :  there  is  a  fine  old  oaken  stair- 
case ;  and  the  great  hall,  that  noble  feature  in  an  ancient 
manor-house,  still  retains  much  of  the  appearance  it  must 
have  had  in  the  days  of  Shakespeare.  The  ceiling  is  arched 
and  lofty ;  and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery,  in  which  stands  an 
organ.  The  weapons  and  trophies  of  the  chase,  which  for- 
merly adorned  the  hall  of  a  country  gentleman,  have  made 
way  for  family  portraits.  There  is  a  wide  hospitable  fire- 
place, calculated  for  an  ample  old-fashioned  wood  fire,  for- 
merly the  rallying  place  of  winter  festivity.  On  the  opposite 


302  UYorKs  of  U/aslpir^tor;  Irvir;<$ 

side  of  the  hall  is  the  huge  Gothic  bow- window,  with  stone 
shafts,  which  looks  out  upon  the  courtyard.  Here  are  em- 
blazoned in  stained  glass  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  Lucy 
family  for  many  generations,  some  being  dated  in  1558.  I 
was  delighted  to  observe  in  the  quarterings  the  three  white 
luces  by  which  the  character  of  Sir  Thomas  was  first  iden- 
tified with  that  of  Justice  Shallow.  They  are  mentioned  in 
the  first  scene  of  the  "Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  where  the 
Justice  is  in  a  rage  with  Falstaff  for  having  "beaten  his  men, 
killed  his  deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge."  The  poet  had, 
no  doubt,  the  offenses  of  himself  and  his  comrades  in  mind 
at  the  time,  and  we  may  suppose  the  family  pride  and  vin- 
dictive threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a  caricature  of 
the  pompous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

"Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not:  I  will  make  a  Star-Chamber 
matter  of  it;  if  he  were  twenty  Sir  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse 
Robert  Shallow,  Esq. 

"Slender.    In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace,  and  coram. 

"Shallow.     Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  custalorum. 

"Slender.  Ay,  and  ratalorum  too,  and  a  gentleman  born,  master 
parson;  who  writes  himself  Armigero  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance, 
or  obligation,  Armigero. 

"Shallow.  Ay,  that  I  do;  and  have  done  any  time  these  three  hun- 
dred years. 

"Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have  done't,  and  all 
his  ancestors  that  come  after  him  may;  they  may  give  the  dozen  white 
luces  in  their  coat. 

"Shallow.    The  council  shall  hear  it;  it  is  a  riot. 

"Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot;  there  is  no  fear 
of  Got  in  a  riot:  the  council,  hear  you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  of 
Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot;  take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

"Shallow.  Ha!  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword  should 
end  it!" 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung  a  portrait  by  Sir 
Peter  Lely  of  one  of  the  Lucy  family,  a  great  beauty  of  the 
time  of  Charles  the  Second:  the  old  housekeeper  shook  her 
head  as  she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  informed  me  that  this 
lady  had  been  sadly  addicted  to  cards,  and  had  gambled 
away  a  great  portion  of  the  family  estate,  among  which  was 


303 

that  part  of  the  park  where  Shakespeare  and  his  comrades 
had  killed  the  deer.  The  lands  thus  lost  have  not  been  en- 
tirely regained  by  the  family,  even  at  the  present  day.  It 
is  but  justice  to  this  recreant  dame  to  confess  that  she  had  a 
surpassingly  fine  hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  attention  was  a 
great  painting  over  the  fireplace,  containing  likenesses  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy  and  his  family,  who  inhabited  the  hall  in  the 
latter  part  of  Shakespeare's  lifetime.  I  at  first  thought  that 
it  was  the  vindictive  knight  himself,  but  the  housekeeper  as- 
sured me  that  it  was  his  son ;  the  only  likeness  extant  of  the 
former  being  an  effigy  upon  his  tomb  in  the  church  of  the 
neighboring  hamlet  of  Charlecot.  The  picture  gives  a  lively 
idea  of  the  costume  and  manners  of  the  time.  Sir  Thomas 
is  dressed  in  ruff  and  doublet;  white  shoes  with  roses  in 
them ;  and  has  a  peaked  yellow,  or,  as  Master  Slender  would 
say,  "a  cane-colored  beard."  His  lady  is  seated  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  picture  in  wide  ruff  and  long  stomacher, 
and  the  children  have  a  most  venerable  stiffness  and  formal- 
ity of  dress.  Hounds  and  spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family 
group ;  a  hawk  is  seated  on  his  perch  in  the  foreground,  and 
one  of  the  children  holds  a  bow ;  all  intimating  the  knight's 
skill  in  hunting,  hawking,  and  archery — so  indispensable  to 
an  accomplished  gentleman  in  those  days.* 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture  of  the  hall 
had  disappeared;  for  I  had  hoped  to  meet  with  the  stately 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  his  time, 
observes:  "His  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  different  families  of 
dogs,  and  serving-men  attendant  on  their  kennels;  and  the  deepness 
of  their  throats  is  the  depth  of  his  discourse.  A  hawk  he  esteems  the 
true  burden  of  nobility,  and  is  exceedingly  ambitious  to  seem  delighted 
with  the  sport,  and  have  his  fist  gloved  with  his  jesses."  And  Gilpin, 
in  his  description  of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarks:  "He  kept  all  sorts  of 
hounds  that  run,  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter,  and  badger;  and  had  hawks 
of  all  kinds  both  long  and  short  winged.  His  great  hall  was  commonly 
strewed  with  marrow-bones,  and  full  of  hawk  perches,  hounds,  span- 
iels, and  terriers.  On  a  broad  hearth,  paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of 
the  choicest  of  terriers,  hounds,  and  spaniels." 


304  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi}  Irvir?$ 

elbow-chair  of  carved  oak,  in  which  the  country  Squire  of 
former  days  was  wont  to  sway  the  scepter  of  empire  over  his 
rural  domains;  and  in  which  it  might  be  presumed  the  re- 
doubted Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in  awful  state,  when  the 
recreant  Shakespeare  was  brought  before  him.  As  I  like  to 
deck  out  pictures  for  my  own  entertainment,  I  pleased  my- 
self with  the  idea  that  this  very  hall  had  been  the  scene  of 
the  unlucky  bard's  examination  on  the  morning  after  his 
captivity  in  the  lodge.  I  fancied  to  myself  the  rural  po- 
tentate, surrounded  by  his  body-guard  of  butler,  pages,  and 
blue-coated  serving-men  with  their  badges;  while  the  luck- 
less culprit  was  brought  in,  forlorn  and  chapfallen,  in  the 
custody  of  game-keepers,  huntsmen  and  whippers-in,  and  fol- 
lowed by  a  rabble  rout  of  country  clowns.  I  fancied  bright 
faces  of  curious  housemaids  peeping  from  the  half-opened 
doors;  while  from  the  gallery  the  fair  daughters  of  the 
Knight  leaned  gracefully  forward  eying  the  youthful 
prisoner  with  that  pity  "that  dwells  in  womanhood." — 
"Who  would  have  thought  that  this  poor  varlet,  thus  trem- 
bling before  the  brief  authority  of  a  country  Squire,  and  the 
sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon  to  become  the  delight  of 
princes;  the  theme  of  all  tongues  and  ages;  the  dictator  to 
the  human  mind ;  and  was  to  confer  immortality  on  his  op- 
pressor by  a  caricature  and  a  lampoon ! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into  the  garden, 
and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit  the  orchard  and  arbor  where  the 
Justice  treated  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin  Slender  "to  a  last 
year's  pippen  of  his  own  graffing,  with  a  dish  of  carraways" ; 
but  I  had  already  spent  so  much  of  the  day  in  my  rambling 
that  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  any  further  investigations. 
"When  about  to  take  my  leave,  I  was  gratified  by  the  civil  en- 
treaties of  the  housekeeper  and  butler  that  I  would  take  some 
refreshment — an  instance  of  good  old  hospitality,  which,  I 
grieve  to  say,  we  castle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  hi  mod- 
ern days.  I  make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which  the  present 
representative  of  the  Lucys  inherits  from  his  ancestors ;  for 
Shakespeare,  even  in  his  caricature,  makes  Justice  Shallow 


305 

importunate  in  this  respect,  as  witness  his  pressing  instances 
to  Falstaff . 

"By  cock  and  pye,  Sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night.  ...  I  will 
not  excuse  you?  you  shall  not  be  excused;  excuses  shall  not  be  admit- 
ted; there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve;  you  shall  not  be  excused.  .  .  .  Some 
pigeons,  Davy;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens;  a  joint  of  mutton;  and 
any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell  'William  Cook.'" 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  hall.  My  mind 
had  become  so  completely  possessed  by  the  imaginary  scenes 
and  characters  connected  with  it  that  I  seemed  to  be  actually 
living  among  them.  Everything  brought  them,  as  it  were, 
before  my  eyes ;  and  as  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened, 
I  almost  expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voice  of  Master  Slender 
quavering  forth  his  favorite  ditty : 

"Tis  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  Shrove-tide!" 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the 
singular  gift  of  the  poet ;  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  the  magic 
of  his  mind  over  the  very  face  of  nature ;  to  give  to  things 
and  places  a  charm  and  character  not  their  own,  and  to  tuni 
this  "working-day  world"  into  a  perfect  fairyland.  He  is 
indeed  the  true  enchanter,  whose  spell  operates,  not  upon 
the  senses,  but  upon  the  imagination  and  the  heart.  Under 
the  wizard  influence  of  Shakespeare  I  had  been  walking  all 
day  in  a  complete  delusion.  I  had  surveyed  the  landscape 
through  the  prism  of  poetry,  which  tinged  every  object  with 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been  surrounded  with  fancied 
beings;  with  mere  airy  nothings,  conjured  up  by  poetic 
power;  yet  which,  to  me,  had  all  the  charm  of  reality.  I 
had  heard  Jacques  soliloquize  beneath  his  oak ;  had  beheld 
the  fair  Rosalind  and  her  companion  adventuring  through 
the  woodlands;  and,  above  all,  had  been  once  more  present 
in  spirit  with  fat  Jack  Palstaff  and  his  contemporaries,  from 
the  august  Justice  Shallow  down  to  the  gentle  Master  Slen- 
der, and  the  sweet  Anne  Page.  Ten  thousand  honors  and 
blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  thus  gilded  the  dull  realities 
of  life  with  innocent  illusions;  who  has  spread  exquisite  and 


306  U/orKs  of  U/asI?ii?$toi} 

unbought  pleasures  in  my  checkered  path ;  and  beguiled  my 
spirit  in  many  a  lonely  hour  with  all  the  cordial  and  cheerful 
sympathies  of  social  life ! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on  my  return,  I 
paused  to  contemplate  the  distant  church  in  which  the  poet 
lies  buried,  and  could  not  but  exult  in  the  malediction  which 
has  kept  his  ashes  undisturbed  in  its  quiet  and  hallowed 
vaults.  What  honor  could  his  name  have  derived  from  be- 
ing mingled  in  dusty  companionship  with  the  epitaphs  and 
escutcheons  and  venal  eulogiums  of  a  titled  multitude?  What 
would  a  crowded  corner  in  Westminster  Abbey  have  been, 
compared  with  this  reverend  pile,  which  seems  to  stand  in 
beautiful  loneliness  as  his  sole  mausoleum!  The  solicitude 
about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  offspring  of  an  overwrought 
sensibility ;  but  human  nature  is  made  up  of  foibles  and  preju- 
dices; and  its  best  and  tenderest  affections  are  mingled  with 
these  factitious  feelings.  He  who  has  sought  renown  about 
the  world,  and  has  reaped  a  full  harvest  of  worldly  favor, 
will  find,  after  all,  that  there  is  no  love,  no  admiration,  no 
applause  so  sweet  to  the  soul  as  that  which  springs  up  hi  his 
native  place.  It  is  there  that  he  seeks  to  be  gathered  in 
peace  and  honor,  among  his  kindred  and  his  early  friends. 
And  when  the  weary  heart  and  failing  head  begin  to  warn 
him  that  the  evening  of  life  is  drawing  on,  he  turns  as 
fondly  as  does  the  infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to 
sleep  in  the  bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  youthful  bard, 
when,  wandering  forth  in  disgrace  upon  a  doubtful  world,  he 
cast  back  a  heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home,  could  he  have 
foreseen  that,  before  many  years,  he  should  return  to  it  cov- 
ered with  renown ;  that  his  name  should  become  the  boast 
and  glory  of  his  native  place ;  that  his  ashes  should  be  relig- 
iously guarded  as  its  most  precious  treasure;  and  that  its 
lessening  spire,  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  tearful  con- 
templation, should  one  day  become  the  beacon,  towering  amid 
the  gentle  landscape,  to  guide  the  literary  pilgrim  of  every 
nation  to  his  tomb ! 


307 


TRAITS    OF    INDIAN    CHARACTER 

"I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin  hun- 
gry, and  he  gave  him  not  to  eat;  if  ever  he  came  cold  and  naked,  and 
he  clothed  him  not."— Speech  of  an  Indian  Chief 

THERE  is  something  in  the  character  and  habits  of  the 
North  American  savage,  taken  in  connection  with  the  scenery 
over  which  he  is  accustomed  to  range,  its  vast  lakes,  bound- 
less forests,  majestic  rivers,  and  trackless  plains,  that  is,  to 
my  mind,  wonderfully  striking  and  sublime.  He  is  formed 
for  the  wilderness,  as  the  Arab  is  for  the  desert.  His  nature 
is  stern,  simple,  and  enduring ;  fitted  to  grapple  with  diffi- 
culties, and  to  support  privations.  There  seems  but  little 
soil  in  his  heart  for  the  growth  of  the  kindly  virtues;  and 
yet,  if  we  would  but  take  the  trouble  to  penetrate  through/ 
that  proud  stoicism  and  habitual  taciturnity,  which  look  up 
his  character  from  casual  observation,  we  should  find  him 
linked  to  his  fellowman  of  civilized  life  by  more  of  those  sym- 
pathies and  affections  than  are  usually  ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines  of 
America,  in  the  early  periods  of  colonization,  to  be  doubly 
wronged  by  the  white  men.  They  have  been  dispossessed/ 
of  their  hereditary  possessions  by  mercenary  and  frequently 
wanton  warfare ;  and  their  characters  have  been  traduced  by 
bigoted  and  interested  writers.  The  colonist  has  often  treated 
them  like  beasts  of  the  forest ;  and  the  author  has  endeavored 
to  justify  him  in  his  outrages.  The  former  found  it  easier  to 
exterminate  than  to  civilize — the  latter  to  vilify  than  to  dis- 
criminate. The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan  were 
deemed  sufficient  to  sanction  the  hostilities  of  both;  and 
thus  the  poor  wanderers  of  the  forest  were  persecuted  and 


308  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii}$toi7 

defamed,  not  because  they  were  guilty,  but  because  they 
were  ignorant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been  properly  ap- 
preciated or  respected  by  the  white  man.  In  peace,  he  has 
too  often  been  the  dupe  of  artful  traffic ;  in  war,  he  has  been 
regarded  as  a  ferocious  animal,  whose  life  or  death  was  a 
question  of  mere  precaution  an£  convenience.  Man  is  cruelly 
wasteful  of  life  when  his  own  safety  is  endangered,  and  he 
is  sheltered  by  impunity ;  and  little  mercy  is  to  be  expected 
from  him  when  he  feels  the  sting  of  the  reptile,  and  is  con- 
scious of  the  power  to  destroy. 

The  same  prejudices  which  were  indulged  thus  early,  ex- 
ist in  common  circulation  at  the  present  day.  Certain  learned 
societies  have,  it  is  true,  with  laudable  diligence,  endeavored 
to  investigate  and  record  the  real  characters  and  manners  of 
the  Indian  tribes;  the  American  government,  too,  has  wisely 
and  humanely  exerted  itself  to  inculcate  a  friendly  and  for- 
bearing spirit  toward  them,  and  to  protect  them  from  fraud 
and  injustice.*  The  current  opinion  of  the  Indian  character, 
however,  is  too  apt  to  be  formed  from  the  miserable  hordes 
which  infest  the  frontiers  and  hang  on  the  skirts  of  the  set- 
tlements. These  are  too  commonly  composed  of  degenerate 
beings,  corrupted  and  enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society,  with- 
out being  benefited  by  its  civilization.  That  proud  independ- 
ence, which  formed  the  main  pillar  of  savage  virtue,  has 
been  shaken  down,  and  the  whole  moral  fabric  lies  in  ruins. 
Their  spirits  are  humiliated  and  debased  by  a  sense  of  in- 
feriority, and  their  native  courage  cowed  and  daunted  by 
the  superior  knowledge  and  power  of  their  enlightened  neigh- 
bors. Society  has  advanced  upon  them  like  one  of  those 

*  The  American  government  has  been  indefatigable  in  its  exertions 
to  meliorate  the  situation  of  the  Indians,  and  to  introduce  among  them 
the  arts  of  civilization,  and  civil  and  religious  knowledge.  To  protect 
them  from  the  frauds  of  the  white  traders,  no  purchase  of  land  from 
them  by  individuals  is  permitted;  nor  is  any  person  allowed  to  receive 
lands  from  them  as  a  present,  without  the  express  sanction  of  govern- 
ment. These  precautions  are  strictly  enforced. 


Jl?e  Sketel?-Book  30? 

withering  airs  that  will  sometimes  breathe  desolation  over 
a  whole  region  of  fertility.  It  has  enervated  their  strength, 
multiplied  their  diseases,  and  superinduced  upon  their  orig- 
inal barbarity  the  low  vices  of  artificial  life.  It  has  given 
them  a  thousand  superfluous  wants,  while  it  has  diminished 
their  means  of  mere  existence.  It  has  driven  before  it  the 
animals  of  the  chase,  who  fly  from  the  sound  of  the  ax  and 
the  smoke  of  the  settlement,  and  seek  refuge  in  the  depths 
of  remoter  forests  and  yet  untrodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too 
often  find  the  Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be  mere  wrecks  and 
remnants  of  once  powerful  tribes,  who  have  lingered  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  settlements,  and  sunk  into  precarious  and 
vagabond  existence.  Poverty,  repining  and  hopeless  pov- 
erty, a  canker  of  the  mind  unknown  in  savage  life,  corrodes 
their  spirits  and  blights  every  free  and  noble  quality  of  their 
natures.  They  become  drunken,  indolent,  feeble,  thievish, 
and  pusillanimous.  They  loiter  like  vagrants  about  the  set- 
tlements, among  spacious  dwellings,  replete  with  elaborate 
comforts,  which  only  render  them  sensible  of  the  compara- 
tive wretchedness  of  their  own  condition.  Luxury  spreads  its 
ample  board  before  their  eyes ;  but  they  are  excluded  from 
the  banquet.  Plenty  revels  over  the  fields;  but  they  are 
starving  in  the  midst  of  its  abundance :  the  whole  wilderness 
has  blossomed  into  a  garden;  but  they  feel  as  reptiles  that 
infest  it. 

'  How  different  was  their  state,  while  yet  the  undisputed 
lords  of  the  soil !  Their  wants  were  few,  and  the  means  of 
gratification  within  their  reach.  They  saw  every  one  round 
them  sharing  the  same  lot,  enduring  the  same  hardships,  feed- 
ing on  the  same  aliments,  arrayed  in  the  same  rude  gar- 
ments. No  roof  then  rose  but  was  open  to  the  homeless 
stranger;  no  smoke  curled  among  the  trees  but  he  was  wel- 
come to  sit  down  by  its  fire  and  join  the  hunter  in  his  repast. 
"For,"  says  an  old  historian  of  New  England,  "their  life  is 
so  void  of  care,  and  they  are  so  loving  also,  that  they  make 
use  of  those  things  they  enjoy  as  common  goods,  and  are 
therein  so  compassionate,  that  rather  than  one  should  starve 


310  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ir)$toi)  Irvii?<$ 

through  want,  they  would  starve  all ;  thus  do  they  pass  their 
time  merrily,  not  regarding  our  pomp,  but  are  better  content 
with  their  own,  which  some  men  esteem  so  meanly  of." 
Such  were  the  Indians,  while  in  the  pride  and  energy  of  their 
primitive  natures;  they  resemble  those  wild  plants  which 
thrive  best  in  the  shades  of  the  forest,  but  shrink  from  the 
hand  of  cultivation,  and  perish  beneath  the  influence  of 
the  sun. 

^-In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers  have  been  too 
prone  to  indulge  in  vulgar  prejudice  and  passionate  exag- 
geration, instead  of  the  candid  temper  of  true  philosophy. 
They  have  not  sufficiently  considered  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances in  which  the  Indians  have  been  placed,  and  the 
peculiar  principles  under  which  they  have  been  educated. 
No  being  acts  more  rigidly  from  rule  than  the  Indian.  His 
whole  conduct  is  regulated  according  to  some  general  maxims 
early  implanted  in  his  mind.  The  moral  laws  that  govern 
him  are,  to  be  sure,  but  few ;  but  then  he  conforms  to  them 
all— the  white  man  abounds  in  laws  of  religion,  morals,  and 
manners,  but  how  many  does  he  violate ! 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the  Indians  is 
their  disregard  of  treaties,  and  the  treachery  and  wantonness 
with  which,  in  time  of  apparent  peace,  they  will  suddenly  fly 
to  hostilities.  The  intercourse  of  the  white  men  with  the 
Indians,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be  cold,  distrustful,  oppres- 
sive, and  insulting.  They  seldom  treat  them  with  that  con- 
fidence and  frankness  which  are  indispensable  to  real  friend- 
ship ;  nor  is  sufficient  caution  observed  not  to  offend  against 
those  feelings  of  pride  or  superstition  which  often  prompt 
the  Indian  to  hostility  quicker  than  mere  considerations  of 
interest.  The  solitary  savage  feels  silently,  but  acutely. 
His  sensibilities  are  not  diffused  over  so  wide  a  surface  as 
those  of  the  white  man ;  but  they  run  in  steadier  and  deeper 
channels.  His  pride,  his  affections,  his  superstitions,  are  all 
directed  toward  fewer  objects ;  but  the  wounds  inflicted  on 
them  are  proportionably  severe,  and  furnish  motives  of  hos- 
tility which  we  cannot  sufficiently  appreciate.  Where  a 


311 

community  is  also  limited  in  number,  and  forms  one  great 
patriarchal  family,  as  in  an  Indian  tribe,  the  injury  of  an 
individual  is  the  injury  of  the  whole ;  and  the  sentiment  of 
vengeance  is  almost  instantaneously  diffused.  One  council- 
fire  is  sufficient  for  the  discussion  and  arrangement  of  a  plan 
of  hostilities.  Here  all  the  fighting  men  and  sages  assemble. 
Eloquence  and  superstition  combine  to  inflame  the  minds  of 
the  warriors.  The  orator  awakens  their  martial  ardor,  and 
they  are  wrought  up  to  a  kind  of  religious  desperation,  by 
the  visions  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exasperations,  arising 
from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian  character,  is  extant  in 
an  old  record  of  the  early  settlement  of  Massachusetts.  The 
planters  of  Plymouth  had  defaced  the  monuments  of  the  dead 
at  Passonagessit,  and  had  plundered  the  grave  of  the  Sachem's 
mother  of  some  skins  with  which  it  had  been  decorated.  The 
Indians  are  remarkable  for  the  reverence  which  they  enter- 
tain for  the  sepulchers  of  their  kindred.  Tribes  that  have 
passed  generations  exiled  from  the  abodes  of  their  ancestors, 
when  by  chance  they  have  been  traveling  in  the  vicinity, 
have  been  known  to  turn  aside  from  the  highway,  and, 
guided  by  wonderfully  accurate  tradition,  have  crossed  the 
country  for  miles  to  some  tumulus,  buried  perhaps  in  woods, 
where  the  bones  of  their  tribe  were  anciently  deposited;  and 
there  have  passed  hours  in  silent  meditation.  Influenced  by 
this  sublime  and  holy  feeling,  the  Sachem,  whose  mother's 
tomb  had  been  violated,  gathered  his  men  together,  and  ad- 
dressed them  in  the  following  beautifully  simple  and  pathetic 
harangue ;  a  curious  specimen  of  Indian  eloquence,  and  an 
affecting  instance  of  filial  piety  hi  a  savage. 

' '  When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky  was  under- 
neath this  globe,  and  birds  grew  silent,  I  began  to  settle,  as 
my  custom  is,  to  take  repose.  Before  mine  eyes  were  fast 
closed,  methought  I  saw  a  vision,  at  which  my  spirit  was 
much  troubled ;  and  trembling  at  that  doleful  sight,  a  spirit 
cried  aloud,  'Behold,  my  son,  whom  I  have  cherished,  see 
the  breasts  that  gave  thee  suck,  the  hands  that  lapped  thee 


312  UYorK»  of  U7a8l?ir?<}toij  Irviitf 

warm,  and  fed  thee  oft.  Canst  thou  forget  to  take  revenge 
of  those  wild  people,  who  have  defaced  my  monument  in  a 
despiteful  manner,  disdaining  our  antiquities  and  honorable 
customs?  See,  now,  the  Sachem's  grave  lies  like  the  com- 
mon people,  defaced  by  an  ignoble  race.  Thy 'mother  doth 
complain,  and  implores  thy  aid  against  this  thievish  people, 
who  have  newly  intruded  on  our  land.  If  this  be  suffered, 
I  shall  not  rest  quiet  in  my  everlasting  habitation. '  This 
said,  the  spirit  vanished,  and  I,  all  in  a  sweat,  not  able  scarce 
to  speak,  began  to  get  some  strength,  and  recollected  my 
spirits  that  were  fled,  and  determined  to  demand  your  coun- 
sel and  assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length,  as  it  tends 
to  show  how  these  sudden  acts  of  hostility,  which  have  been 
attributed  to  caprice  and  perfidy,  may  often  arise  from  deep 
and  generous  motives,  which  our  inattention  to  Indian  char- 
acter and  customs  prevents  our  properly  appreciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the  Indians  is 
their  barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This  had  its  origin  partly 
in  policy  and  partly  in  superstition.  The  tribes,  though 
sometimes  called  nations,  were  never  so  formidable  in  their 
numbers  but  that  the  loss  of  several  warriors  was  sensibly 
felt ;  this  was  particularly  the  case  when  they  had  been  fre- 
quently engaged  in  warfare ;  and  many  an  instance  occurs 
in  Indian  history,  where  a  tribe,  that  had  long  been  formi- 
dable to  its  neighbors,  has  been  broken  up  and  driven  away 
by  the  capture  and  massacre  of  its  principal  fighting  men. 
There  was  a  strong  temptation,  therefore,  to  the  victor  to 
be  merciless;  not  so  much  to  gratify  any  cruel  revenge  as 
to  provide  for  future  security.  The  Indians  had  also  the 
superstitious  belief,  frequent  among  barbarous  nations,  and 
prevalent  also  among  the  ancients,  that  the  manes  of  their 
friends  who  had  fallen  in  battle  were  soothed  by  the  blood 
of  the  captives.  The  prisoners,  however,  who  are  not  thus 
sacrificed,  are  adopted  into  their  families  in  the  place  of  the 
slain,  and  are  treated  with  the  confidence  and  affection  of 
relatives  and  friends;  nay,  so  hospitable  and  tender  is  their 


313 

entertainment,  that  when  the  alternative  is  offered  them, 
they  will  often  prefer  to  remain  with  their  adopted  brethren, 
rather  than  return  to  the  home  and  the  friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  toward  their  prisoners  has  been 
heightened  since  the  colonization  of  the  whites.  What  was 
formerly  a  compliance  with  policy  and  superstition,  has  been 
exasperated  into  a  gratification  of  vengeance.  They  cannot 
but  be  sensible  that  the  white  men  are  the  usurpers  of  their 
ancient  dominion,  the  cause  of  their  degradation,  and  the 
gradual  destroyers  of  their  race.  They  go  forth  to  battle, 
smarting  with  injuries  and  indignities  which  they  have  indi- 
vidually suffered,  and  they  are  driven  to  .madness  and  despair 
by  the  wide-spreading  desolation  and  the  overwhelming  ruin 
of  European  warfare.  The  whites  have  too  frequently  set  ' 
them  an  example  of  violence,  by  burning  their  villages  and 
laying  waste  their  slender  means  of  subsistence ;  and  yet  they 
wonder  that  savages  do  not  show  moderation  and  magna- 
nimity toward  those  who  have  left  them  nothing  but  mere 
existence  and  wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly  and  treach- 
erous, because  they  use  stratagem  in  warfare,  in  preference 
to  open  force ;  but  in  this  they  are  fully  justified  by  their  rude 
code  of  honor.  They  are  early  taught  that  stratagem  is 
praiseworthy:  the  bravest  warrior  thinks  it  no  disgrace  to 
lurk  in  silence,  and  take  every  advantage  of  his  foe:  he 
triumphs  in  the  superior  craft  and  sagacity  by  which  he  has 
been  enabled  to  surprise  and  destroy  an  enemy.  Indeed, 
man  is  naturally  more  prone  to  subtilty  than  open  valor, 
owing  to  his  physical  weakness  in  comparison  with  other 
animals.  They  are  endowed  with  natural  weapons  of  de- 
fense: with  horns,  with  tusks,  with  hoofs,  and  talons;  but 
man  has  to  depend  on  his  superior  sagacity.  In  all  his 
encounters  with  these,  his  proper  enemies,  he  resorts  to 
stratagem ;  and  when  he  perversely  turns  his  hostility  against 
his  fellow  man,  he  at  first  continues  the  same  subtle  mode  of 
warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most  harm  to 
*  *  *14  VOL.  I. 


314  UVorKs  of  U/a8l?io<$toi} 

our  enemy,  with  the  least  harm  to  ourselves;  and  this  of 
course  is  to  be  effected  by  stratagem.  That  chivalrous 
courage  which  induces  us  to  despise  the  suggestions  of  pru- 
dence, and  to  rush  in  the  face  of  certain  danger,  is  the  off- 
spring of  society,  and  produced  by  education.  It  is  honor- 
able, because  it  is  in  fact  the  triumph  of  lofty  sentiment  over 
an  instinctive  repugnance  to  pain,  and  over  those  yearnings 
after  personal  ease  and  security,  which  society  has  con- 
demned as  ignoble.  It  is  kept  alive  by  pride  and  the  fear  of 
shame ;  and  thus  the  dread  of  real  evil  is  overcome  by  the 
superior  dread  of  an  evil  which  exists  but  in  the  imagination. 
It  has  been  cherished  and  stimulated  also  by  various  means. 
It  has  been  the  theme  of  spirit-stirring  song  and  chivalrous 
story.  The  poet  and  minstrel  have  delighted  to  shed  round 
it  the  splendors  of  fiction;  and  even  the  historian  has  for- 
gotten the  sober  gravity  of  narration,  and  broken  forth  into 
enthusiasm  and  rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Triumphs  and 
gorgeous  pageants  have  been  its  reward:  monuments,  on 
which  art  has  exhausted  its  skill  and  opulence  its  treasures, 
have  been  erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's  gratitude  and  ad- 
miration. Thus  artificially  excited,  courage  has  risen  to  an 
extraordinary  and  factitious  degree  of  heroism ;  and,  arrayed 
in  all  the  glorious  "pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,"  this 
turbulent  quality  has  ever  been  able  to  eclipse  many  of  those 
quiet,  but  invaluable  virtues,  which  silently  ennoble  the 
human  character,  and  swell  the  tide  of  human  happiness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance  of 
danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual  exhibi- 
tion of  it.  He  lives  in  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility  and  risk. 
Peril  and  adventure  are  congenial  to  his  nature;  or  rather 
seem  necessary  to  arouse  his  faculties  and  to  give  an  interest 
to  his  existence.  Surrounded  by  hostile  tribes,  whose  mode 
of  warfare  is  by  ambush  and  surprisal,  he  is  always  prepared 
for  fight,  and  lives  with  his  weapons  in  his  hands.  As  the 
ship  careers  in  fearful  singleness  through  the  solitudes  of 
ocean — as  the  bird  mingles  among  clouds  and  storms,  and 
wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck,  across  the  pathless  fields  of 


The  SKeteb-BooK  315 

air;  so  the  Indian  holds  his  course,  silent,  solitary,  but  un- 
daunted, through  the  boundless  bosom  of  the  wilderness. 
His  expeditions  may  vie  in  distance  and  danger  with  the 
pilgrimage  of  the  devotee,  or  the  crusade  of  the  knight-errant. 
He  traverses  vast  forests,  exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely 
sickness,  of  lurking  enemies,  and  pining  famine.  Stormy 
lakes,  those  great  inland  seas,  are  no  obstacles  to  his  wander- 
ings :  in  his  light  canoe  of  bark,  he  sports  like  a  feather  on 
their  waves,  and  darts  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow  down 
the  roaring  rapids  of  the  rivers.  His  very  subsistence  is 
snatched  from  the  midst  of  toil  and  peril.  He  gains  his  food 
by  the  hardships  and  dangers  of  the  chase ;  he  wraps  himself 
in  the  spoils  of  the  bear,  the  panther,  and  the  buffalo;  arid 
sleeps  among  the  thunders  of  the  cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  surpass  the  Indian  ' 
in  his  lofty  contempt  of  death,  and  the  fortitude  with  which 
he  sustains  its  cruelest  affliction.  Indeed,  we  here  behold 
him  rising  superior  to  the  white  man,  in  consequence  of  his 
peculiar  education.  The  latter  rushes  to  glorious  death  at 
the  cannon's  mouth;  the  former  calmly  contemplates  its 
approach,  and  triumphantly  endures  it,  amid  the  varied 
torments  of  surrounding  foes,  and  the  protracted  agonies  of 
fire.  He  even  takes  a  pride  in  tauntiijg  his  persecutors,  and 
provoking  their  ingenuity  of  torture;  and  as  the  devouring 
flames  prey  on  his  very  vitals,  and  the  flesh  shrinks  from  the 
sinews,  he  raises  his  last  song  of  triumph,  breathing  the 
defiance  of  an  unconquered  heart,  and  invoking  the  spirits  of 
his  fathers  to  witness  that  he  dies  without  a  groan. 

Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which  the  early  his- 
torians have  overshadowed  the  characters  of  the  unfortunate 
natives,  some  bright  gleams  occasionally  break  through, 
which  throw  a  degree  of  melancholy  luster  on  their  memories. 
Facts  are  occasionally  to  be  met  with  in  the  rude  annals  of 
the  eastern  provinces,  which,  though  recorded  with  the  color- 
ing of  prejudice  and  bigotry,  yet  speak  for  themselves;  and 
will  be  dwelt  on  with  applause  and  sympathy  when  prejudice 
shall  have  passed  away. 


816  U/orKs  of  U/asI?iQ<$toi) 

In  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian  wars  in  New 
England,  there  is  a  touching  account  of  the  desolation  carried 
into  the  tribe  of  the  Pequod  Indians.  Humanity  shrinks 
from  the  cold-blooded  detail  of  indiscriminate  butchery.  In 
one  place  we  read  of  the  surppisal  of  an  Indian  fort  in  the 
night,  when  the  wigwams  were  wrapped  in  flames,  and  the 
miserable  inhabitants  shot  down  and  slain  in  attempting  to 
escape,  "all  being  dispatched  and  ended  in  the  course  of  an 
hour."  After  a  series  of  similar  transactions,  "our  soldiers," 
as  the  historian  piously  observes,  "being  resolved  by  God's 
assistance  to  make  a  final  destruction  of  them,"  the  unhappy 
savages  being  hunted  from  their  homes  and  fortresses,  and 
pursued  with  fire  and  sword,  a  scanty  but  gallant  band,  the 
sad  remnant  of  the  Pequod  warriors,  with  their  wives  and 
children,  took  refuge  in  a  swamp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen  by  de- 
spair; with  hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  their  tribe,  and  spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the 
fancied  ignominy  of  their  defeat,  they  refused  to  ask  their 
lives  at  the  hands  of  an  insulting  foe,  and  preferred  death 
to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on,  they  were  surrounded  in  their 
dismal  retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape  impracticable.  Thus 
situated,  their  enemy  "plied  them  with  shot  all  the  time,  by 
which  means  many  were  killed  and  buried  in  the  mire. ' '  In 
the  darkness  and  fog  that  preceded  the  dawn  of  day  some 
few  broke  through  the  besiegers  and  escaped  into  the  woods : 
"the  rest  were  left  to  the  conquerors,  of  which  many  were 
killed  in  the  swamp,  like  sullen  dogs  who  would  rather,  in 
their  self-willedness  and  madness,  sit  still  and  be  shot  through, 
or  cut  to  pieces,"  than  implore  for  mercy.  When  the  day 
broke  upon  this  handful  of  forlorn,  but  dauntless  spirits,  the 
soldiers,  we  are  told,  entering  the  swamp,  "saw  several  heaps 
of  them  sitting  close  together,  upon  whom  they  discharged 
their  pieces,  laden  with  ten  or  twelve  pistol-bullets  at  a  time ; 
putting  the  muzzles  of  the  pieces  under  the  boughs,  within  a 
few  yards  of  them ;  so  as,  besides  those  that  were  found  dead, 


TI?e  Sketel?-BooK  317 

many  more  were  killed  and  sunk  into  the  mire,  and  never 
were  minded  more  by  friend  or  foe." 

Can  anyone  read  this  plain  unvarnished  tale,  without 
admiring  the  stern  resolution,  the  unbending  pride,  the  lofti- 
ness of  spirit,  that  seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts  of  these  self- 
taught  heroes,  and  to  raise  them  above  the  instinctive  feelings 
of  human  nature?  When  the  Gauls  laid  waste  the  city  of 
Rome,  they  found  the  senators  clothed  in  their  robes  and 
seated  with  stern  tranquillity  in  their  curule  chairs ;  in  this 
manner  they  suffered  death  without  resistance  or  even  sup- 
plication. Such  conduct  was,  in  them,  applauded  as  noble 
and  magnanimous — in  the  hapless  Indians,  it  was  reviled  as 
obstinate  and  sullen.  How  truly  are  we  the  dupes  of  show 
and  circumstance !  How  different  is  virtue,  clothed  in  purple 
and  enthroned  in  state,  from  virtue  naked  and  destitute,  and 
perishing  obscurely  in  a  wilderness! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pictures.  The 
eastern  tribes  have  long  since  disappeared ;  the  forests  that 
sheltered  them  have  been  laid  low,  and  scarce  any  traces 
remain  of  them  in  the  thickly-settled  States  of  New  England, 
excepting  here  and  there  the  Indian  name  of  a  village  or  a 
stream.  And  such  must  sooner  or  later  be  the  fate  of  those 
other  tribes  which  skirt  the  frontiers  and  have  occasionally 
been  inveigled  from  their  forests  to  mingle  in  the  wars  of 
white  men.  In  a  little  while,  and  they  will  go  the  way  that 
their  brethren  have  gone  before.  The  few  hordes  which  still 
linger  about  the  shores  of  Huron  and  Superior,  and  the 
tributary  streams  of  the  Mississippi,  will  share  the  fate  of 
those  tribes  that  once  spread  over  Massachusetts  and  Con- 
necticut and  lorded  it  along  the  proud  banks  of  the  Hudson ; 
of  that  gigantic  race  said  to  have  existed  on  the  borders  of 
the  Susquehanna ;  and  of  those  various  nations  that  flourished 
about  the  Potowmac  and  the  Rappahanoc,  and  that  peopled 
the  forests  of  the  vast  valley  of  Shenandoah.  They  will 
vanish  like  a.  vapor  from  the  face  of  the  earth ;  their  very 
history  will  be  lost  in  f orgetf ulness ;  and  "the  places  that  now 
know  them  will  know  them  no  more  forever."  Or  if,  per- 


318  U/orKs  of  U/ast>ii}<$toi}  Irvlr;$ 

chance,  some  dubious  memorial  of  them  should  survive,  it 
may  be  in  the  romantic  dreams  of  the  poet,  to  people  in 
imagination  his  glades  and  groves,  like  the  fauns  and  satyrs 
and  sylvan  deities  of  antiquity.  But  should  he  venture  upon 
the  dark  story  of  their  wrongs  and  wretchedness;  should  he 
tell  how  they  were  invaded,  corrupted,  despoiled;  driven 
from  their  native  abodes  and  the  sepulchers  of  their  fathers ; 
hunted  like  wild  beasts  about  the  earth,  and  sent  down  with 
violence  and  butchery  to  the  grave— posterity  will  either  turn 
with  horror  and  incredulity  from  the  tale,  or  blush  with  in- 
dignation at  the  inhumanity  of  their  forefathers. — "We  are 
driven  back,"  said  an  old  warrior,  "until  we  can  retreat  no 
further — our  hatchets  are  broken,  our  bows  are  snapped,  our 
fires  are  nearly  extinguished — a  little  longer  and  the  white 
man  will  cease  to  persecute  us — for  we  shall  cease  to  exist." 


PHILIP   OF   POKANOKET 

AN    INDIAN    MEMOIR 

"As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look: 
A  soul  that  pit}7  touch'd,  but  never  shook; 
Train'd,  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier, 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive— fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear— 
A  stoic  of  the  woods— a  man  without  a  fear." 

—CAMPBELL 

IT  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  early  writers  who  treated 
of  the  discovery  and  settlement  of  America  have  not  given 
us  more  particular  and  candid  accounts  of  the  remarkable 
characters  that  flourished  in  savage  life.  The  scanty  anec- 
dotes which  have  reached  us  are  full  of  peculiarity  and  in- 
terest ;  they  furnish  us  with  nearer  glimpses  of  human  nature, 
and  show  what  man  is  in  a  comparatively  primitive  state  and 
what  he  owes  to  civilization.  There  is  something  of  the 


The  SKeteb-BooK  319 

charm  of  discovery  in  lighting  upon  these  wild  and  unex- 
plored tracts  of  human  nature ;  in  witnessing,  as  it  were,  the 
native  growth  of  moral  sentiment ;  and  perceiving  those  gen- 
erous and  romantic  qualities  which  have  been  artificially 
cultivated  by  society,  vegetating  in  spontaneous  hardihood 
and  rude  magnificence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  and  indeed  almost 
the  existence,  of  man  depends  so  much  upon  the  opinion  of 
his  fellow  men,  he  is  constantly  acting  a  studied  part.  The 
bold  and  peculiar  traits  of  native  character  are  refined  away, 
or  softened  down  by  the  leveling  influence  of  what  is  termed 
good  breeding;  and  he  practices  so  many  petty  deceptions, 
and  affects  so  many  generous  sentiments,  for  the  purposes  of 
popularity,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  his  real  from  his 
artificial  character.  The  Indian,  on  the  contrary,  free  from 
the  restraints  and  refinements  of  polished  life,  and,  in  a  great 
degree,  a  solitary  and  independent  being,  obeys  the  impulses 
of  his  inclination  or  the  dictates  of  his  judgment;  and  thus 
the  attributes  of  his  nature,  being  freely  indulged,  grow- 
singly  great  and  striking.  Society  is  like  a  lawn,  where 
every  roughness  is  smoothed,  every  bramble  eradicated,  and 
where  the  eye  is  delighted  by  the  smiling  verdure  of  a  velvet 
surface;  he,  however,  who  would  study  Nature  in  its  wild- 
ness  and  variety,  must  plunge  into  the  forest,  must  explore 
the  glen,  must  stem  the  torrent,  and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking  through  a  vol- 
ume of  early  colonial  history,  wherein  are  recorded,  with 
great  bitterness,  the  outrages  of  the  Indians,  and  their  wars 
with  the  settlers  of  New  England.  It  is  painful  to  perceive, 
even  from  these  partial  narratives,  how  the  footsteps  of  civ- 
ilization may  be  traced  in  the  blood  of  the  aborigines;  how 
easily  the  colonists  were  moved  to  hostility  by  the  lust  of 
conquest ;  how  merciless  and  exterminating  was  their  war- 
fare. The  imagination  shrinks  at  the  idea :  how  many  intel- 
lectual beings  were  hunted  from  the  earth— how  many  brave 
and  noble  hearts,  of  Nature's  sterling  coinage,  were  broken 
down  and  trampled  in  the  dust ! 


320  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi>  Iruir;$ 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket,  an  Indian 
warrior,  whose  name  was  once  a  terror  throughout  Massa- 
chusetts and  Connecticut.  He  was  the  most  distinguished  of 
a  number  of  contemporary  Sachems,  who  reigned  over  the 
Pequods,  the  Narrhagansets,  the  Wampanoags,  and  the  other 
eastern  tribes,  at  the  time  of  the  first  settlement  of  New  Eng- 
land :  a  band  of  native  untaught  heroes,  who  made  the  most 
generous  struggle  of  which  human  nature  is  capable ;  fighting 
to  the  last  gasp  in  the  cause  of  their  country,  without  a  hope 
of  victory  or  a  thought  of  renown.  Worthy  of  an  age  of 
poetry,  and  fit  subjects  for  local  story  and  romantic  fiction, 
they  have  left  scarcely  any  authentic  traces  on  the  page  of 
history,  but  stalk,  like  gigantic  shadows,  in  the  dim  twilight 
of  tradition.  * 

When  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers  are  called  by 
their  descendants,  first  took  refuge  on  the  shores  of  the  New 
World,  from  the  religious  persecutions  of  the  Old,  their  situa- 
tion was  to  the  last  degree  gloomy  and  disheartening.  Few 
in  number,  and  that  number  rapidly  perishing  away  through 
sickness  and  hardships;  surrounded  by  a  howling  wilderness 
and  savage  tribes;  exposed  to  the  rigors  of  an  almost  arctic 
winter  and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  ever-shifting  climate;  their 
minds  were  filled  with  doleful  forebodings,  and  nothing  pre- 
served them  from  sinking  into  despondency  but  the  strong 
excitement  of  religious  enthusiasm.  In  this  forlorn  situation 
they  were  visited  by  Massasoit,  chief  Sagamore  of  the  Wam- 
panoags, a  powerful  chief,  who  reigned  over  a  great  extent 
of  country.  Instead  of  taking  advantage  of  the  scanty  num- 
ber of  the  strangers,  and  expelling  them  from  his  territories 
into  which  they  had  intruded,  he  seemed  at  once  to  conceive 
for  them  a  generous  friendship,  and  extended  toward  them 
the  rites  of  primitive  hospitality.  He  came  early  in  the 
spring  to  their  settlement  of  New  Plymouth,  attended  by  a 


*  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  this  article,  the  author  is 
informed  that  a  celebrated  English  poet  has  nearly  finished  a  heroic 
poem  on  the  story  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket 


Tt>e  SKetel?-BooK  321 

mere  handful  of  followers ;  entered  into  a  solemn  league  of 
peace  and  amity ;  sold  them  a  portion  of  the  soil,  and  prom- 
ised to  secure  for  them  the  good-will  of  his  savage  allies. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  Indian  perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the 
integrity  and  good  faith  of  Massasoit  have  never  been  im- 
peached. He  continued  a  firm  and  magnanimous  friend  of 
the  white  men;  suffering  them  to  extend  their  possessions 
and  to  strengthen  themselves  in  the  land,  and  betraying  no 
jealousy  of  their  increasing  power  and  prosperity.  Shortly 
before  his  death  he  came  once  more  to  New  Plymouth,  with 
his  son  Alexander,  for  the  purpose  of  renewing  the  covenant 
of  peace  and  of  securing  it  to  his  posterity. 

At  this  conference  he  endeavored  to  protect  the  religion  of 
his  forefathers  from  the  encroaching  zeal  of  the  missionaries, 
and  stipulated  that  no  further  attempt  should  be  made  to 
draw  off  his  people  from  their  ancient  faith ;  but,  finding  the 
English  obstinately  opposed  to  any  such  condition,  he  mildly 
relinquished  the  demand.  Almost  the  last  act  of  his  life  was 
to  bring  his  two  sons,  Alexander  and  Philip  (as  they  had 
been  named  by  the  English),  to  the  residence  of  a  principal 
settler,  recommending  mutual  kindness  and  confidence,  and 
entreating  that  the  same  love  and  amity  which  had  existed 
between  the  white  men  and  himself  might  be  continued  after- 
ward with  his  children.  The  good  old  Sachem  died  in  peace, 
and  was  happily  gathered  to  his  fathers  before  sorrow  came 
upon  his  tribe;  his  children  remained  behind  to  experience 
the  ingratitude  of  white  men. 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  He  was  of  a 
quick  and  impetuous  temper,  and  proudly  tenacious  of  his 
hereditary  rights  and  dignity.  The  intrusive  policy  and 
dictatorial  conduct  of  the  strangers  excited  his  indignation ; 
and  he  beheld  with  uneasiness  their  exterminating  wars  with 
the  neighboring  tribes.  He  was  doomed  soon  to  incur  their 
hostility,  being  accused  of  plotting  with  the  Narrhagansets  to 
rise  against  the  English  and  drive  them  from  the  land.  It 
is  impossible  to  say  whether  this  accusation  was  warranted 
by  facts  or  was  grounded  on  mere  suspicions.  It  is  evident, 


322  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii?$toi?  Irvii)$ 

however,  by  the  violent  and  overbearing  measures  of  the 
settlers,  that  they  had  by  this  tune  begun  to  feel  conscious  of 
the  rapid  increase  of  their  power  and  to  grow  harsh  and  in- 
considerate in  their  treatment  of  the  natives.  They  dis- 
patched an  armed  force  to  seize  upon  Alexander  and  to  bring 
him  before  their  court.  He  was  traced  to  his  woodland 
haunts,  and  surprised  at  a  hunting  house,  where  he  was  re- 
posing with  a  band  of  his  followers,  unarmed,  after  the  toils 
of  the  chase.  The  suddenness  of  his  arrest,  and  the  outrage 
offered  to  his  sovereign  dignity,  so  preyed  upon  the  irascible 
feelings  of  this  proud  savage  as  to  throw  him  into  a  raging 
fever ;  he  was  permitted  to  return  home  on  condition  of  send- 
ing his  son  as  a  pledge  for  his  reappearance ;  but  the  blow  he 
had  received  was  fatal,  and  before  he  reached  his  home  he 
fell  a  victim  to  the  agonies  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metamocet,  or  King 
Philip,  as  .he  was  called  by  the  settlers,  on  account  of  his 
lofty  spirit  and  ambitious  temper.  These,  together  with  his 
well-known  energy  and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him  an 
object  of  great  jealousy  and  apprehension,  and  he  was  ac- 
cused of  having  always  cherished  a  secret  and  implacable 
hostility  toward  the  whites.  Such  may  very  probably  and  very 
naturally  have  been  the  case.  He  considered  them  as  origi- 
nally but  mere  intruders  into  the  country,  who  had  presumed 
upon  indulgence  and  were  extending  an  influence  baneful  to 
savage  life.  He  saw  the  whole  race  of  his  countrymen  melt- 
ing before  them  from  the  face  of  the  earth;  their  territories 
slipping  from  their  hands  and  their  tribes  becoming  feeble, 
scattered  and  dependent.  It  may  be  said  that  the  soil  was 
originally  purchased  by  the  settlers;  but  who  does  not  know 
the  nature  of  Indian  purchases  in  the  early  periods  of  coloni- 
zation? The  Europeans  always  made  thrifty  bargains,  through 
their  superior  adroitness  in  traffic ;  and  they  gained  vast  ac- 
cessions of  territory  by  easily-provoked  hostilities.  An  un- 
cultivated savage  is  never  a  nice  inquirer  into  the  refinements 
of  law,  by  which  an  injury  may  be  gradually  and  legally  in- 
flicted. Leading  facts  are  all  by  which  he  judges;  and  it  was 


The  SKetel?-BooK  323 

enough  for  Philip  to  know,  that  before  the  intrusion  of  the 
Europeans  his  countrymen  were  lords  of  the  soil  and  that 
now  they  were  becoming  vagabonds  in  the  land  of  their 
fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  of  general  hos- 
tility, and  his  particular  indignation  at  the  treatment  of  his 
brother,  he  suppressed  them  for  the  present,  renewed  the 
contract  with  the  settlers,  and  resided  peaceably  for  many 
years  at  Pokanoket,  or,  as  it  was  called  by  the  English, 
Mount  Hope,*  the  ancient  seat  of  dominion  of  his  tribe. 
Suspicions,  however,  which  were  at  first  but  vague  and  in- 
definite, began  to  acquire  form  and  substance;  and  he  was 
at  length  charged  with  attempting  to  instigate  the  various 
eastern  tribes  to  rise  at  once,  and,  by  a  simultaneous  effort, 
to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  their  oppressors.  It  is  difficult  at 
this  distant  period  to  assign  the  proper  credit  due  to  these 
early  accusations  against  the  Indians.  There  was  a  prone- 
ness  to  suspicion,  and  an  aptness  to  acts  of  violence  on  the 
part  of  the  whites,  that  gave  weight  and  importance  to  every 
idle  tale.  Informers  abounded,  where  tale-bearing  met 
with  countenance  and  reward;  and  the  sword  was  readily 
unsheathed,  when  its  success  was  certain,  and  it  carved  out 
empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against  Philip  is  the 
accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  renegado  Indian,  whose 
natural  cunning  had  been  quickened  by  a  partial  education 
which  he  had  received  among  the  settlers.  He  changed  his 
faith  and  his  allegiance  two  or  three  times,  with  a  facility 
that  evinced  the  looseness  of  his  principles.  He  had  acted 
for  some  time  as  Philip's  confidential  secretary  and  counselor', 
and  had  enjoyed  his  bounty  and  protection.  Finding,  how- 
ever, that  the  clouds  of  adversity  were  gathering  round  his 
patron,  he  abandoned  his  service  and  went  over  to  the  whites ; 
and,  in  order  to  gain  their  favor,  charged  his  former  bene- 
factor with  plotting  against  their  safety.  A  rigorous  inves- 

*  Now  Bristol,  Rhode  Island. 


324  U/orks  of  U/asl?ii>$toi) 

tigation  took  place.  Philip  and  several  of  his  subjects  sub- 
mitted to  be  examined,  but  nothing  was  proved  against  them. 
The  settlers,  however,  had  now  gone  too  far  to  retract;  they 
had  previously  determined  that  Philip  was  a  dangerous 
neighbor;  they  had  publicly  evinced  their  distrust,  and  had 
done  enough  to  insure  his  hostility :  according,  therefore,  to 
the  usual  mode  of  reasoning  in  these  cases,  his  destruction 
had  become  necessary  to  their  security.  Sausaman,  the 
treacherous  informer,  was  shortly  after  found  dead  in  a 
pond,  having  fallen  a  victim  to  the  vengeance  of  his  tribe. 
Three  Indians,  one  of  whom  was  a  friend  and  counselor  of 
Philip,  were  apprehended  and  tried,  and,  on  the  testimony  of 
one  very  questionable  witness,  were  condemned  and  executed 
as  murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects  and  ignominious  punish- 
ment of  his  friend,  outraged  the  pride  and  exasperated  the 
passions  of  Philip.  The  bolt  which  had  fallen  thus  at  his 
very  feet,  awakened  him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and  he  de- 
termined to  trust  himself  no  longer  in  the  power  of  the  white 
men.  The  fate  of  his  insulted  and  broken-hearted  brother 
still  rankled  in  his  mind ;  and  he  had  a  further  warning  in 
the  tragical  story  of  Miantonimo,  a  great  Sachem  of  the 
Narrhagansets,  who,  after  manfully  facing  his  accusers  be- 
fore a  tribunal  of  the  colonists,  exculpating  himself  from  a 
charge  of  conspiracy,  and  receiving  assurances  of  amity,  had 
been  perfidiously  dispatched  at  their  instigation.  Philip, 
therefore,  gathered  his  righting  men  about  him;  persuaded 
all  strangers  that  he  could  to  join  his  cause;  sent  the  women 
and  children  to  the  Narrhagansets  for  safety;  and  where- 
over  he  appeared  was  continually  surrounded  by  armed 
warriors. 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of  distrust  and 
irritation,  the  least  spark  was  sufficient  to  set  them  in  a  flame. 
The  Indians,  having  weapons  in  their  hands,  grew  mischiev- 
ous and  committed  various  petty  depredations.  In  one  of 
their  maraudings  a  warrior  was  fired  upon  and  killed  by  a 
settler.  This  was  the  signal  for  open  hostilities;  the  Indians 


Tl?e  Sketch-Book  325 

pressed  to  revenge  the  death  of  their  comrade  and  the  alarm 
of  war  resounded  through  the  Plymouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and  melancholy 
times  we  meet  with  many  indications  of  the  diseased  state  of 
the  public  mind.  The  gloom  of  religious  abstraction,  and 
the  wildness  of  their  situation,  among  trackless  forests  and 
savage  tribes,  had  disposed  the  colonists  to  superstitious  fan- 
cies and  had  filled  their  imaginations  with  the  frightful 
chimeras  of  witchcraft  and  spectrology.  They  were  much 
given  also  to  a  belief  hi  omens.  The  troubles  with  Philip 
and  his  Indians  were  preceded,  we  are  told,  by  a  variety  of 
those  awful  warnings  which  forerun  great  and  public  calam- 
ities. The  perfect  arm  of  an  Indian  bow  appeared  in  the  air 
at  New  Plymouth,  which  was  looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants 
as  a  "prodigious  apparition."  At  Hadley,  Northampton, 
and  other  towns  in  their  neighborhood,  "was  heard  the 
report  of  a  great  piece  of  ordnance,  with  the  shaking  of  the 
earth  and  a  considerable  echo."*  Others  were  alarmed  on  a 
still  sunshiny  morning,  by  the  discharge  of  guns  and  muskets; 
bullets  seemed  to  whistle  past  them  and  the  noise  of  drums 
resounded  hi  the  air,  seeming  to  pass  away  to  the  westward ; 
others  fancied  that  they  heard  the  galloping  of  horses  over 
their  heads ;  and  certain  monstrous  births  which  took  place 
about  the  time  filled  the  superstitious  in  some  towns  with 
doleful  forebodings.  Many  of  these  portentous  sights  and 
sounds  may  be  ascribed  to  natural  phenomena;  to  the  north- 
ern lights  which  occur  vividly  in  those  latitudes ;  the  meteors 
which  explode  hi  the  air ;  the  casual  rushing  of  a  blast  through 
the  top  branches  of  the  forest ;  the  crash  of  falling  trees  or 
disrupted  rocks;  and  to  those  other  uncouth  sounds  and 
echoes  which  will  sometimes  strike  the  ear  so  strangely  amid 
the  profound  stillness  of  woodland  solitudes.  These  may 
have  startled  some  melancholy  imaginations,  may  have  been 
exaggerated  by  the  love  for  the  marvelous,  and  listened  to 
with  that  avidity  with  which  we  devour  whatever  is  fearful 

*  The  Rev.  Increase  Mather's  History. 


326  U/or^s  of  U/ast?ir)<$tor)  Iruii)<J 

and  mysterious.  The  universal  currency  of  these  supersti- 
tious fancies  and  the  grave  record  made  of  them  by  one  of 
the  learned  men  of  the  day,  are  strongly  characteristic  of  the 
times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was  such  as  too  often 
distinguishes  the  warfare  between  civilized  men  and  savages. 
On  the  part  of  the  whites,  it  was  conducted  with  superior 
skill  and  success;  but  with  a  wastefulness  of  the  blood  and  a 
disregard  of  the  natural  rights  of  their  antagonists :  on  the 
part  of  the  Indians  it  was  waged  with  the  desperation  of 
men  fearless  of  death,  and  who  had  nothing  to  expect  from 
peace,  but  humiliation,  dependence  and  decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us  by  a  worthy 
clergyman  of  the  time,  who  dwells  with  horror  and  indigna- 
tion on  every  hostile  act  of  the  Indians,  however  justifiable, 
while  he  mentions  with  applause  the  most  sanguinary  atroc- 
ities of  the  whites.  Philip  is  reviled  as  a  murderer  and  a 
traitor;  without  considering  that  he  was  a  true-born  prince, 
gallantly  fighting  at  the.  head  of  his  subjects  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  his  family;  to  retrieve  the  tottering  power  of  his 
line,  and  to  deliver  his  native  land  from  the  oppression  of 
usurping  strangers. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  revolt,  if  such  had 
really  been  formed,  was  wosthy  of  a  capacious  mind,  and, 
had  it  not  been  prematurely  discovered,  might  have  been 
overwhelming  in  its  consequences.  The  war  that  actually 
broke  out  was  but  a  war  of  detail;  a  mere  succession  of 
casual  exploits  and  unconnected  enterprises.  Still  it  sets  forth 
the  military  genius  and  daring  prowess  of  Philip ;  and  where- 
ever,  in  the  prejudiced  and  passionate  narrations  that  have 
been  given  of  it,  we  can  arrive  at  simple  facts,  we  find  him 
displaying  a  vigorous  mind;  a  fertility  in  expedients;  a  con- 
tempt of  suffering  and  hardship ;  and  an  unconquerable  reso- 
lution that  command  our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount  Hope,  he 
threw  himself  into  the  depths  of  those  vast  and  trackless 
forests  that*  skirted  the  settlements,  and  were  almost  imper- 


Jl?e  SKetob-BooK  327 

vious  to  anything  but  a  wild  beast  or  an  Indian.  Here  he 
gathered  together  his  forces,  like  the  storm  accumulating  its 
stores  of  mischief  in  the  bosom  of  the  thunder-cloud,  and 
would  suddenly  emerge  at  a  time  and  place  least  expected, 
carrying  havoc  and  dismay  into  the  villages.  There  were 
now  and  then  indications  of  these  impending  ravages  that 
filled  the  minds  of  the  colonists  with  awe  and  apprehension. 
The  report  of  a  distant  gun  would  perhaps  be  heard  from  the 
solitary  woodland,  where  there  was  known  to  be  no  white 
man;  the  cattle  which  had  been  wandering  in  the  woods 
would  sometimes  return  home  wounded,  or  an  Indian  or  two 
would  be  seen  lurking  about  the  skirts  of  the  forests,  and 
suddenly  disappearing,  as  the  lightning  will  sometimes  be 
seen  playing  silently  about  the  edge  of  the  cloud  that  is 
brewing  up  the  tempest. 

Though  sometimes  pursued,  and  even  surrounded  by  the 
settlers,  yet  Philip  as  often  escaped  almost  miraculously  from 
their  toils,  and,  plunging  into  the  wilderness,  would  be  lost 
to  all  search  or  inquiry  until  he  again  emerged  at  some  far 
distant  quarter,  laying  the  country  desolate.  Among  his 
strongholds  were  the  great  swamps  or  morasses  which  extend 
in  some  parts  of  New  England,  composed  of  loose  bogs  of 
deep  black  mud,  perplexed  with  thickets,  brambles,  rank 
weeds,  the  shattered  and  mouldering  trunks  of  fallen  trees, 
overshadowed  by  lugubrious  hemlocks.  The  uncertain  foot- 
ing and  the  tangled  mazes  of  these  shaggy  wilds  rendered 
them  almost  impracticable  to  the  white  man,  though  the 
Indian  could  thread  their  labyrinths  with  the  agility  of  a 
deer.  Into  one  of  these,  the  great  swamp  of  Pocasset  Neck,  ^ 
was  Philip  once  driven  with  a  band  of  his  followers.  The 
English  did  not  dare  to  pursue  him,  fearing  to  venture  into 
these  dark  and  frightful  recesses,  where  they  might  perish  in 
fens  and  miry  pits  or  be  shot  down  by  lurking  foes.  They 
therefore  invested  the  entrance  to  the  neck  and  began  to  build 
a  fort,  with  the  thought  of  starving  out  the  foe ;  but  Philip 
and  his  warriors  wafted  themselves  on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of 
the  sea,  in  the  dead  of  night,  leaving  the  women  and  children 


328  U/orks  of  U/asl?ip$toi) 

behind,  and  escaped  away  to  the  westward,  kindling  the 
flames  of  war  among  the  tribes  of  Massachusetts  and  the 
Nipmuck  country  and  threatening  the  colony  of  Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  universal  appre- 
hension. The  mystery  in  which  he  was  enveloped  exagger- 
ated his  real  terrors.  He  was  an  evil  that  walked  in  dark- 
ness; whose  coming  none  could  foresee,  and  against  which 
none  knew  when  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  whole  country 
abounded  with  rumors  and  alarms.  Philip  seemed  almost 
possessed  of  ubiquity;  for,  in  whatever  part  of  the  widely 
extended  frontier  an  irruption  from  the  forest  took  place, 
Philip  was  said  to  be  its  leader.  Many  superstitious  notions 
also  were  circulated  concerning  him.  He  was  said  to  deal 
in  necromancy,  and  to  be  attended  by  an  old  Indian  witch  or 
prophetess  whom  he  consulted,  and  who  assisted  him  by  her 
charms  and  incantations.  This  indeed  was  frequently  the 
case  with  Indian  chiefs;  either  through  their  own  credulity 
or  to  act  upon  that  of  their  followers :  and  the  influence  of 
the  prophet  and  the  dreamer  over  Indian  superstition  has 
been  fully  evidenced  in  recent  instances  of  savage  warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from  Pocasset, 
his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  condition.  His  forces  had 
been  thinned  by  repeated  fights,  and  he  had  lost  almost  the 
whole  of  his  resources.  In  this  time  of  adversity  he  found 
a  faithful  friend  in  Canonchet,  Chief  Sachem  of  all  the 
Narrhagansets.  He  was  the  son  and  heir  of  Miantonimo,  the 
great  Sachem,  who,  as  already  mentioned,  after  an  honorable 
acquittal  of  the  charge  of  conspiracy,  had  been  privately  put 
to  death  at  the  perfidious  instigations  of  the  settlers.  "He 
was  the  heir,"  says  the  old  chronicler,  "of  all  his  father's 
pride  and  insolence,  as  well  as  of  his  malice  toward  the  En- 
glish;" he  certainly  was  the  heir  of  his  insults  and  injuries, 
and  the  legitimate  avenger  of  his  murder.  Though  he  had 
forborne  to  take  an  active  part  in  this  hopeless  war,  yet  he 
received  Philip  and  his  broken  forces  with  open  arms,  and 
gave  them  the  most  generous  countenance  and  support. 
This  at  once  drew  upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  English,  and 


fl?e  SKetelHSooK  329 

it  was  determined  to  strike  a  signal  blow  that  should  involve 
both  the  Sachems  in  one  common  ruin.  A  great  force  was, 
therefore,  gathered  together  from  Massachusetts,  Plymouth 
and  Connecticut,  and  was  sent  into  the  Narrhaganset  country 
in  the  depth  of  winter,  when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and 
leafless,  could  be  traversed  with  comparative  facility,  and 
would  no  longer  afford  dark  and  impenetrable  fastnesses  to 
the  Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  conveyed  the 
greater  part  of  his  stores,  together  with  the  old,  the  infirm, 
the  women  and  children  of  his  tribe,  to  a  strong  fortress, 
where  he  and  Philip  had  likewise  drawn  up  the  flower  of 
their  forces.  This  fortress,  deemed  by  the  Indians  impreg- 
nable, was  situated  upon  a  rising  mound  or  kind  of  island,  of 
five  or  six  acres,  in  the  midst  of  a  swamp ;  it  was  constructed 
with  a  degree  of  judgment  and  skill  vastly  superior  to  what 
is  usually  displayed  in  Indian  fortification,  and  indicative  of 
the  martial  genius  of  these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English  penetrated, 
through  December  snows,  to  this  stronghold,  and  came  upon 
the  garrison  by  surprise.  The  fight  was  fierce  and  tumultuous. 
The  assailants  were  repulsed  in  their  first  attack,  and  several 
of  their  bravest  officers  were  shot  down  in  the  act  of  storming 
the  fortress,  sword  in  hand.  The  assault  was  renewed  with 
greater  success.  A  lodgment  was  effected.  The  Indiana 
were  driven  from  one  post  to  another.  They  disputed  their 
ground  inch  by  inch,  fighting  with  the  fury  of  despair.  Most 
of  their  veterans  were  cut  to  pieces;  and  after  a  long  and 
bloody  battle,  Philip  and  Canonchet,  with  a  handful  of  sur- 
viving warriors,  retreated  from  the  fort  and  took  refuge  in 
the  thickets  of  the  surrounding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the  fort;  the 
whole  was  soon  in  a  blaze ;  many  of  the  old  men,  the  women 
and  the  children,  perished  in  the  flames.  This  last  outrage 
overcame  even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage.  The  neighboring 
woods  resounded  with  the  yells  of  rage  and  despair,  uttered 
by  the  fugitive  warriors  as  they  beheld  the  destruction  of 


330  U/orKs  of  U/asbip$toi) 

their  dwellings,  and  heard  the  agonizing  cries  of  their  wives 
and  offspring.  "The  burning  of  the  wigwams,"  says  a  con- 
temporary writer,  "the  shrieks  and  cries  of  the  women  and 
children,  and  the  yelling  of  the  warriors,  exhibited  a  most 
horrible  and  affecting  scene,  so  that  it  greatly  moved  some  of 
the  soldiers."  The  same  writer  cautiously  adds,  "they  were 
in  much  doubt  then,  and  afterward  seriously  inquired, 
whether  burning  their  enemies  alive  could  be  consistent  with 
humanity  and  the  benevolent  principles  of  the  gospel."  * 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchet  is  worthy 
of  particular  mention :  the  last  scene  of  his  life  is  one  of  the 
noblest  instances  on  record  of  Indian  magnanimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by  this  signal 
defeat,  yet  faithful  to  his  ally  and  to  the  hapless  cause  which 
he  had  espoused,  he  rejected  all  overtures  of  peace,  offered 
on  condition  of  betraying  Philip  and  his  followers,  and  de- 
clared that  "he  would  fight  it  out  to  the  last  man,  rather 
than  become  a  servant  to  the  English."  His  home  being 
destroyed, -his  country  harassed  and  laid  waste  by  the  in- 
cursions of  the  conquerors,  he  was  obliged  to  wander  away 
to  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut,  where  he  formed  a  rallying 
point  to  the  whole  body  of  western  Indians  and  laid  waste 
several  of  the  English  settlements. 

Early  in  the  spring  he  departed  on  a  hazardous  expedition, 
with  only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  penetrate  to  Seaconck,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  and  to  procure  seed-corn  to  plant  for 
the  sustenance  of  his  troops.  This  little  band  of  adventurers 
had  passed  safely  through  the  Pequod  country  and  were  in 
the  center  of  the  Narrhaganset,  resting  at  some  wigwaias 
near  Pautucket  River,  when  an  alarm  was  given  of  an  ap- 
proaching enemy.  Having  but  seven  men  by  him  at  the 
time,  Canonchet  dispatched  two  of  them  to  the  top  of  a 
neighboring  hill  to  bring  intelligence  of  the  foe. 

Panicstruck  by  the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  English  and 
Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they  fled  in  breathless  terror  past 
their  chieftain,  without  stopping  to  inform  him  of  the  danger. 
*  MS.  of  the  Rev.  W.  Buggies. 


331 

Canonchet  sent  another  scout  who  did  the  same.  He  then 
sent  two  more,  one  of  whom,  hurrying  back  in  confusion  and 
affright,  told  him  that  the  whole  British  army  was  at  hand. 
Canonchet  saw  there  was  no  choice  but  immediate  flight. 
He  attempted  to  escape  round  the  hill,  but  was  perceived  and 
hotly  pursued  by  the  hostile  Indians  and  a  few  of  the  fleetest 
of  the  English.  Finding  the  swiftest  pursuer  close  upon  his 
heels,  he  threw  off,  first  his  blanket,  then  his  silver-laced  coat 
and  belt  of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies  knew  him  to  be 
Canonchet  and  redoubled  the  eagerness  of  pursuit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river  his  foot  slipped 
upon  a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as  to  wet  his  gun.  This 
accident  so  struck  him  with  despair,  that,  as  he  afterward 
confessed,  "his  heart  and  his  bowels  turned  within  him,  and 
he  became  like  a  rotten  stick,  void  of  strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  that,  being  seized  by 
a  Pequod  Indian  within  a  short  distance  of  the  river,  he  made 
no  resistance,  though  a  man  of  great  vigor  of  body  and  bold- 
ness of  heart.  But  on  being  made  prisoner,  the  whole  pride 
of  his  spirit  arose  within  him;  and  from  that  moment,  we 
find,  in  the  anecdotes  given  by  his  enemies,  nothing  but  re- 
peated flashes  of  elevated  and  prince-like  heroism.  Being 
questioned  by  one  of  the  English  who  first  came  up  with 
him,  and  who  had  not  attained  his  twenty-second  year,  the 
proud-hearted  warrior,  looking  with  lofty  contempt  upon  his 
youthful  countenance,  replied,  "You  are  a  child — you  cannot 
understand  matters  of  war — let  your  brother  or  your  chief 
come — him  will  I  answer." 

Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of  his  life,  on 
condition  of  submitting  with  his  nation  to  the  English,  yet  he* 
rejected  them  with  disdain,  and  refused  to  send  any  proposals 
of  the  kind  to  the  great  body  of  his  subjects;  saying  that  he 
knew  none  of  them  would  comply,  Being  reproached  with 
his  breach  of  faith  toward  the  whites,  his  boast  that  he  would 
not  deliver  up  a  Wampanoag,  nor  the  parings  of  a  Wampa- 
noag's  nail,  and  his  threat  that  he  would  burn  the  English 
alive  in  their  houses,  he  disdained  to  justify  himself,  haughtily 


332  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?^toij  Iruiij? 

answering  that  others  were  as  forward  for  the  war  as  himself, 
"and  he  desired  to  hear  no  more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidelity  to  his 
cause  and  his  friend,  might  have  touched  the  feelings  of  the 
generous  and  the  brave;  but  Canonchet  was  an  Indian;  a 
being  toward  whom  war  had  no  courtesy,  humanity  no  law, 
religion  no  compassion — he  was  condemned  to  die.  The  last 
words  of  his  that  are  recorded  are  worthy  the  greatness  of 
his  soul.  When  sentence  of  death  was  passed  upon  him,  he 
observed,  "that  he  liked  it  well,  for  he  should  die  before  his 
heart  was  soft,  or  he  had  spoken  anything  unworthy  of  him- 
self." His  enemies  gave  him  the  death  of  a  soldier,  for  he 
was  shot  at.Stoningham  by  three  young  Sachems  of  his  own 
rank. 

The  defeat  of  the  Narrhaganset  fortress  and  the  death  of 
Canonchet  were  fatal  blows  to  the  fortunes  of  King  Philip. 
He  made  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  raise  a  head  of  war,  by 
stirring  up  the  Mohawks  to  take  arms;  but  though  possessed 
of  the  native  talents  of  a  statesman,  his  arts  were  counter- 
acted by  the  superior  arts  of  his  enlightened  enemies,  and  the 
terror  of  their  warlike  skill  began  to  subdue  the  resolution  of 
the  neighboring  tribes.  The  unfortunate  chieftain  saw  him- 
self daily  stripped  of  power  and  his  ranks  rapidly  thinning 
around  him.  Some  were  suborned  by  the  whites;  others 
fell  victims  to  hunger  and  fatigue  and  to  the  frequent  attacks 
by  which  they  were  harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured ; 
his  chosen  friends  were  swept  away  from  before  his  eyes ;  his 
uncle  was  shot  down  by  his  side;  his  sister  was  carried  into 
captivity,  and  in  one  of  his  narrow  escapes  he  was  compelled 
to  leave  his  beloved  wife  and  only  son  to  the  mercy  of  the 
enemy.  "His  ruin,"  says  the  historian,  "being  thus  gradu- 
ally carried  on,  his  misery  was  not  prevented,  but  augmented 
thereby;  being  himself  made  acquainted  with  the  sense  and 
experimental  feeling  of  the  captivity  of  his  children,  loss  of 
friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects,  bereavement  of  all  family 
relations,  and  being  stripped  of  all  outward  comforts  before 
his  own  life  should  be  taken  away." 


Tbe  SketeI?-BooK  333 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  his  own  followers 
began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that  by  sacrificing  him  they 
might  purchase  dishonorable  safety.  Through  treachery,  a 
number  of  his  faithful  adherents,  the  subjects  of  Wetamoe, 
an  Indian  princess  of  Pocasset,  a  near  kinswoman  and  con- 
federate of  Philip,  were  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 
Wetamoe  was  among  them  at  the  time,  and  attempted  to 
make  her  escape  by  crossing  a  neighboring  river :  either  ex- 
hausted by  swimming,  or  starved  with  cold  and  hunger,  she 
was  found  dead  and  naked  near  the  water-side.  But  persecu- 
tion ceased  not  at  the  grave :  even  death,  the  refuge  of  the 
wretched,  where  the  wicked  commonly  cease  from  troubling, 
was  no  protection  to  this  outcast  female,  wjiose  great  crime 
was  affectionate  fidelity  to  her  kinsman  and  her  friend.  Her 
corpse  was  the  object  of  unmanly  and  dastardly  vengeance; 
the  head  was  severed  from  the  body  and  set  upon  a  pole,  and 
was  thus  exposed,  at  Taunton,  to  the  view  of  her  captive 
subjects.  They  immediately  recognized  the  features  of  their 
unfortunate  queen,  and  were  so  affected  at  this  barbarous 
spectacle  that  we  are  told  they  broke  forth  into  the  "most 
horrid  and  diabolical  lamentations." 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the  complicated 
miseries  and  misfortunes  that  surrounded  him,  the  treachery 
of  his  followers  seemed  to  wring  his  heart  and  reduce  him  to 
despondency.  It  is  said  that  "he  never  rejoiced  afterward, 
nor  had  success  in  any  of  his  designs."  The  springvof  hope 
was  broken — the  ardor  of  enterprise  was  extinguished:  he 
looked  around,  and  all  was  danger  and  darkness;  there  was 
no  eye  to  pity,  nor  any  arm  that  could  bring  deliverance. 
With  a  scanty  band  of  followers,  who  still  remained  true  to' 
his  desperate  fortunes,  the  unhappy  Philip  wandered  back  to 
the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  the  ancient  dwelling  of  his 
fathers.  Here  he  lurked  about,  like  a  specter,  among  the 
scenes  of  former  power  and  prosperity,  now  bereft  of  home, 
of  family  and  friend.  There  needs  no  better  picture  of  his 
destitute  and  piteous  situation  than  that  furnished  by  the 
homely  pen  of  the  chronicler,  who  is  unwarily  enlisting  the 


334  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii)<$toi? 

feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  the  hapless  warrior  whom 
he  reviles.  "Philip,"  he  says,  "like  a  savage  wild  beast, 
having  been  hunted  by  the  English  forces  through  the  woods 
above  a  hundred  miles  backward  and  forward,  at  last  was 
driven  to  his  own  den  upon  Mount  Hope,  where  he  retired, 
with  a  few  of  his  best  friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved 
but  a  prison  to  keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death 
came  by  divine  permission  to  execute  vengeance  upon  him." 

Even  at  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  despair  a  sullen 
grandeur  gathers  round  his  memory.  We  picture  him  to 
ourselves  seated  among  his  care-worn  followers,  brooding 
in  silence  over  his  blasted  fortunes,  and  acquiring  a  savage 
sublimity  from  the  wildness  and  dreariness  of  his  lurking- 
place.  Defeated,  but  not  dismayed — crushed  to  the  earth, 
but  not  humiliated — he  seemed  to  grow  more  haughty  be- 
neath disaster,  and  to  experience  a  fierce  satisfaction  in 
draining  the  last  dregs  of  bitterness.  Little  minds  are  tamed 
and  subdued  by  misfortune ;  but  great  minds  rise  above  it. 
The  very  idea  of  submission  awakened  the  fury  of  Philip,  and 
he  smote  to  death  one  of  his  followers  who  proposed  an  ex- 
pedient of  peace.  The  brother  of  the  victim  made  his  escape, 
and  in  revenge  betrayed  the  retreat  of  his  chieftain.  A  body 
of  white  men  and  Indians  were  immediately  dispatched  to 
the  swamp  where  Philip  lay  crouched,  glaring  with  fury  and 
despair.  Before  he  was  aware  of  their  approach,  they  had 
begun  to  surround  him.  In  a  little  while  he  saw  five  of  his 
trustiest  followers  laid  dead  at  his  feet;  all  resistance  was 
vain ;  he  rushed  forth  from  his  covert  and  made  a  headlong 
attempt  at  escape,  but  was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  rene- 
gado  Indian  of  his  own  nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave  but  unfortunate 
King  Philip;  persecuted  while  living,  slandered  and  dishon- 
ored when  dead.  If,  however,  we  consider  even  the  preju- 
diced anecdotes  furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we  may  perceive 
in  them  traces  of  amiable  and  lofty  character,  sufficient  to 
awaken  sympathy  for  his  fate  and  respect  for  his  memory. 
We  find  that,  amid  all  the  harassing  cares  and  ferocious 


Jl?e  SKetob-BooK  335 

passions  of  constant  warfare,  he  was  alive  to  the  softer  feel- 
ings of  connubial  love  and  paternal  tenderness,  and  to  the 
generous  sentiment  of  friendship.  The  captivity  of  his  "be- 
loved wife  and  only  son"  is  mentioned  with  exultation,  as 
causing  him  poignant  misery :  the  death  of  any  near  friend 
is  triumphantly  recorded  as  a  new  blow  on  his  sensibilities; 
but  the  treachery  and  desertion  of  many  of  his  followers,  in 
whose  affections  he  had  confided,  is  said  to  have  desolated 
his  heart,  and  to  have  bereaved  him  of  all  further  comfort. 
He  was  a  patriot,  attached  to  his  native  soil — a  prince  true  to 
his  subjects,  and  indignant  of  their  wrongs — a  soldier,  daring 
in  battle,  firm  in  adversity,  patient  of  fatigue,  of  hunger,  of 
every  variety  of  bodily  suffering,  and  ready  to  perish  in  the 
cause  he  had  espoused.  Proud  of  heart,  and  with  an  un- 
tamable love  of  natural  liberty,  he  preferred  to  enjoy  it 
among  the  beasts  of  the  forests,  or  in  the  dismal  and  fam- 
ished recesses  of  swamps  and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  his 
haughty  spirit  to  submission  and  live  dependent  and  despised 
in  the  ease  and  luxury  of  the  settlements.  With  heroic 
qualities  and  bold  achievements  that  would  have  graced  a 
civilized  warrior,  and  have  rendered  him  the  theme  of  the 
poet  and  the  historian,  he  lived  a  wanderer  and  a  fugitive  in 
his  native  land,  and  went  down,  like  a  lonely  bark,  founder- 
ing amid  darkness  and  tempest — without  a  pitying  eye  to 
weep  his  fall,  or  a  friendly  hand  to  record  his  struggle. 


336  U/orKs     f  U/asl?ip$toi)  Iruir;<$ 


JOHN    BULL 

"An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 

"With  an  old  study  flll'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 
With  an  old   reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by 

his  looks; 

With  an  old  buttery-hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half  a  dozen  old  cooks. 
Like  an  old  courtier,"  etc. 

—  Old  Song 

THERE  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which  the  English  more 
excel  than  that  which  consists  in  caricaturing  and  giving 
ludicrous  appellations  or  nicknames.  In  this  way  they  have 
whimsically  designated,  not  merely  individuals,  but  nations ; 
and  in  their  fondness  for  pushing  a  joke,  they  have  not 
spared  even  themselves.  One  would  think  that,  in  personify- 
ing itself,  a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture  something  grand, 
heroic  and  imposing;  but  it  is  characteristic  of  the  peculiar 
humor  of  the  English,  and  of  their  love  for  what  is  blunt, 
comic  and  familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their  national 
oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old  fellow,  with  a 
three-cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat,  leather  breeches  and  stout 
oaken  cudgel.  Thus  they  have  taken  a  singular  delight  in 
exhibiting  then*  most  private  foibles  hi  a  laughable  point  of 
view;  and  have  been  so  successful  in  their  delineation  that 
there  is  scarcely  a  being  in  actual  existence  more  absolutely 
present  to  the  public  mind  than  that  eccentric  personage 
John  Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  character  thus 
drawn  of  them  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon  the  nation,  and 
thus  to  give  reality  to  what  at  first  may  have  been  painted 
in  a  great  measure  from  the  imagination.  Men  are  apt  to 


337 

acquire  peculiarities  that  are  continually  ascribed  to  them. 
The  common  orders  of  English  seem  wonderfully  captivated 
with  the  beau  ideal  which  they  have  formed  of  John  Bull, 
and  endeavor  to  act  up  to  the  broad  caricature  that  is  per- 
petually before  their  eyes.  Unluckily,  they  sometimes  make 
their  boasted  Bull-ism  an  apology  for  their  prejudice  or  gross-  I 
ness;  and  this  I  have  especially  noticed  among  those  truly 
home-bred  and  genuine  sons  of  the  soil  who  have  never 
migrated  beyond  the  sound  of  Bow-bells.  If  one  of  these 
should  be  a  little  uncouth  in  speech,  and  apt  to  utter  imper- 
tinent truths,  he  confesses  that  he  is  a  real  John  Bull,  and 
always  speaks  his  mind.  If  he  now  and  then  flies  into  an 
unreasonable  burst  of  passion  about  trifles,  he  observes  that 
John  Bull  is  a  choleric  old  blade,  but  then  his  passion  is  over 
in  a  moment  and  he  bears  no  malice.  If  he  betrays  a  coarse- 
ness of  taste,  and  an  insensibility  to  foreign  refinements,  he 
thanks  Heaven  for  his  ignorance — he  is  a  plain  John  Bull, 
and  has  no  relish  for  frippery  and  knickknacks.  His  very 
proneness  to  be  gulled  by  strangers,  and  to  pay  extravagantly 
for  absurdities,  is  excused  under  the  plea  of  munificence — for 
John  is  always  more  generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive  to 
argue  every  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly  convict  him- 
self of  being  the  honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have  suited 
in  the  first  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted  itself  to  the 
nation,  or  rather  they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each  other; 
and  a  stranger  who  wishes  to  study  English  peculiarities 
may  gather  much  valuable  information  from  the  innumerable 
portraits  of,  John  Bull,  as  exhibited  in  the  windows  of  the 
caricature-shops.  Still,  however,  he  is  one  of  those  fertile 
humorists  that  are  continually  throwing  out  new  portraits, 
and  presenting  different  aspects  from  different  points  of  view ; 
and,  often  as  he  has  been  described,  I  cannot  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  give  a  slight  sketch  of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain  downright  matter- 
of-fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about  him  than  rich 
*  *  *15  VOL.  I. 


338  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii}$tor> 

prose.  There  is  little  of  romance  in  his  nature,  but  a  vast 
deal  of  strong  natural  feeling.  He  excels  in  humor  more 
than  in  wit;  is  jolly  rather  than  gay;  melancholy  rather 
than  morose ;  can  easily  be  moved  to  a  sudden  tear,  or  sur- 
prised into  a  broad  laugh ;  but  he  loathes  sentiment  and  has 
no  turn  for  light  pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon  companion,  if  you 
allow  him  to  have  his  humor  and  to  talk  about  himself ;  and 
he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel,  with  life  and  purse, 
however  soundly  he  may  be  cudgeled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a  propensity 
to  be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a  busy-minded  personage, 
who  thinks  not  merely  for  himself  and  family,  but  for  all  the 
country  round,  and  is  most  generally  disposed  to  be  every- 
body's champion.  He  is  continually  volunteering  his  services 
to  settle  his  neighbors'  affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great  dudgeon 
if  they  engage  in  any  matter  of  consequence  without  asking 
his  advice;  though  he  seldom  engages  in  any  friendly  office 
of  the  kind  without  finishing  by  getting  into  a  squabble  with 
all  parties  and  then  railing  bitterly  at  their  ingratitude.  He 
unluckily  took  lessons  in  his  youth  in  the  noble  science  of 
defense,  and  having  accomplished  himself  in  the  use  of  his 
limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a  perfect  master  at  box- 
ing and  cudgel-play,  he  has  had  a  troublesome  life  of  it  ever 
since.  He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel  between  the  most  distant 
of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  incontinently  to  fumble  with 
the  head  of  his  cudgel  and  consider  whether  his  interest  or 
honor  does  not  require  that  he  should  meddle  in  the  broil. 
Indeed,  he  has  extended  his  relations  of  pride  and  policy  so 
completely  over  the  whole  country  that  no  event  can  take 
place  without  infringing  some  of  his  finely-spun  rights  and 
dignities.  Couched  in  his  little  domain,  with  these  filaments 
stretching  forth  in  every  direction,  he  is  like  some  choleric, 
bottle-bellied  old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web  over  a  whole 
chamber,  so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor  a  breeze  blow,  with- 
out startling  his  repose  and  causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrath- 
fully  from  his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fellow 


339 

at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the  midst  of 
contention.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however,  that  he 
only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray ;  he  always  goes  into 
a  fight  with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grumbling  even 
when  victorious ;  and  though  no  one  fights  with  more  obsti- 
nacy to  carry  a  contested  point,  yet,  when  the  battle  is  over, 
and  he  conies  to  the  reconciliation,  he  is  so  much  taken  up 
with  the  mere  shaking  of  hands  that  he  is  apt  to  let  his 
antagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been  quarreling  about. 
It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting  that  he  ought  so  much  to  be  on 
his  guard  against  as  making  friends.  It  is  difficult  to  cudgel 
him  out  of  a  farthing ;  but  put  him  in  a  good  humor,  and  you 
may  bargain  him  out  of  all  the  money  in  his  pocket.  He  is 
like  a  stout  ship,  which  will  weather  the  roughest  storm  un- 
injured, but  roll  its  masts  overboard  in  the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad;  of 
pulling  out  a  long  purse ;  flinging  his  money  bravely  about  at 
boxing-matches,  horse-races,  cock-fights,  and  carrying  a  high 
head  among  "gentlemen  of  the  fancy";  but  immediately 
after  one  of  these  fits  of  extravagance  he  will  be  taken  with 
violent  qualms  of  economy;  stop  short  at  the  most  trivial 
expenditure;  talk  desperately  of  being  ruined  and  brought 
upon  the  parish ;  and  in  such  moods  will  not  pay  the  smallest 
tradesman's  bill  without  violent  altercation.  _  He  is,  in  fact, 
the  most  punctual  and  discontented  paymaster  in  the  world; 
drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches  pocket  with  infinite 
reluctance;  paying  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  but  accom- 
panying every  guinea  with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a  bountiful 
provider  and  a  hospitable  housekeeper.  His  economy  is  of  '' 
a  whimsical  kind,  its  chief  object  being  to  devise  how  he  may 
afford  to  be  extravagant;  for  he  will  begrudge  himself  a 
beefsteak  and  pint  of  port  one  day  that  he  may  roast  an  ox 
whole,  broach  a  hogshead  of  ale,  and  treat  all  his  neighbors 
on  the  next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expensive :  not 
so  much  from  any  great  outward  parade,  as  from  the  great 


340  U/or^s  of  UYasl?ip<$top  Iruip? 

consumption  of  solid  beef  and  pudding;  the  vast  number  of 
followers  he  feeds  and  clothes,  and  his  singular  disposition  to 
pay  hugely  for.  small  services.  He  is  a  most  kind  and  in- 
dulgent master,  and,  provided  his  servants  humor  his  pecu- 
liarities, natter  his  vanity  a  little  now  and  then,  and  do  not 
peculate  grossly  on  him  before  his  face,  they  may  manage 
him  to  perfection.  Everything  that  lives  on  him  seems  to 
thrive  and  grow  fat.  His  house  servants  are  well  paid  and 
pampered  and  have  little  to  do.  His  horses  are  sleek  and 
lazy  and  prance  slowly  before  his  state  carriage,  and  his 
house-dogs  sleep  quietly  about  the  door  and  will  hardly  bark 
at  a  house-breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor-house, 
gray  with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable,  though  weather- 
beaten,  appearance.  It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular  plan, 
but  is  a  vast  accumulation  of  parts,  erected  in  various  tastes 
and  ages.  The  center  bears  evident  traces  of  Saxon  archi- 
tecture, and  is  as  solid  as  ponderous  stone  and  old  English 
oak  can  make  it.  Like  all  the  relics  of  that  style,  it  is  full 
of  obscure  passages,  intricate  mazes  and  dusky  chambers, 
and,  though  these  have  been  partially  lighted  up  in  modern 
days,  yet  there  are  many  places  where  you  must  still  grope 
in  the  dark.  Additions  have  been  made  to  the  original  edifice 
from  time  to  time,  and  great  alterations  have  taken  place; 
towers  and  battlements  have  been  erected  during  wars  and 
tumults,  wings  built  in  time  of  peace,  and  outhouses,  lodges 
and  offices  run  up  according  to  the  whim  or  convenience  of 
different  generations,  until  it  has  become  one  of  the  most 
spacious,  rambling  tenements  imaginable.  An  entire  wing 
is  taken  up  with  the  family  chapel;  a  reverend  pile,  that 
must  once  have  been  exceedingly  sumptuous,  and,  indeed,  in 
spite  of  having  been  altered  and  simplified  at  various  periods, 
has  still  a  look  of  solemn  religious  pomp.  Its  walls  within 
are  storied  with  the  monuments  of  John's  ancestors;  and  it 
is  snugly  fitted  up  with  soft  cushions  and  well-lined  chairs, 
where  such  of  his  family  as  are  inclined  to  church  services 
may  doze  comfortably  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties. 


To  keep  up  this  chapel  has  cost  John  much  money;  but 
he  is  stanch  in  his  religion  and  piqued  in  his  zeal,  from  the 
circumstance  that  many  dissenting  chapels  have  been  erected 
in  his  vicinity,  and  several  of  his  neighbors,  with  whom  he 
has  had  quarrels,  are  strong  Papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel  he  maintains,  at  a  large 
expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain.  He  is  a  most 
learned  and  decorous  personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred  Chris- 
tian, who  always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his  opinions, 
winks  discreetly  at  his  little  peccadilloes,  rebukes  the  children 
when  refractory,  and  is  of  great  use  in  exhorting  the  tenants 
to  read  their  Bibles,  say  their  prayers,  and,  above  all,  to  pay 
their  rents  punctually  and  without  grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated  taste, 
somewhat  heavy  and  often  inconvenient,  but  full  of  the 
solemn  magnificence  of  former  times;  fitted  up  with  rich, 
though  faded  tapestry,  unwieldy  furniture,  and  loads  of 
massy,  gorgeous  old  plate.  The  vast  fireplaces,  ample 
kitchens,  extensive  cellars  and  sumptuous  banqueting  halls- 
all  speak  of  the  roaring  hospitality  of  days  of  yore,  of  which 
the  modern  festivity  at  the  manor-house  is  but  a  shadow. 
There  are,  however,  complete  suites  of  rooms  apparently 
deserted  and  time-worn,  and  towers  and  turrets  that  are 
tottering  to  decay,  so  that  in  high  winds  there  is  danger  of 
their  tumbling  about  the  ears  of  the  household. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old  edifice 
thoroughly  overhauled  and  to  have  some  of  the  useless  parts 
pulled  down  and  the  others  strengthened  with  their  materials ; 
but  the  old  gentleman  always  grows  testy  on  this  subject. 
He  swears  the  house  is  an  excellent  house — that  it  is  tight 
and  weather-proof  and  not  to  be  shaken  by  tempests — that  it 
has  stood  for  several  hundred  years,  and,  therefore,  is  not 
likely  to  tumble  down  now — that  as  to  its  being  inconvenient, 
his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  inconveniences  and  would 
not  be  comfortable  without  them — that  as  to  its  unwieldy 
size  and  irregular  construction,  these  result  from  its  being1 
the  growth  of  centuries  and  being  improved  by  the  wisdom 


342  ll/or^s  of  U/asl?ip$toij 

of  every  generation — that  an  old  family  like  his  requires  a 
large  house  to  dwell  in ;  new,  upstart  families  may  live  in 
modern  cottages  and  snug  boxes,  but  an  old  English  family 
should  inhabit  an  old  English  manor-house.  If  you  point 
out  any  part  of  the  building  as  superfluous,  he  insists  that  it 
is  material  to  the  strength  or  decoration  of  the  rest,  and  the 
harmony  of  the  whole ;  and  swears  that  the  parts  are  so  built 
into  each  other  that  if  you  pull  down  one  you  run  the  risk  of 
having  the  whole  about  your  ears. 

The  'secret  of  the  matter  is  that  John  has  a  great  disposi- 
tion to  protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it  indispensable  to 
the  dignity  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  family  to  be  bounte- 
ous in  its  appointments,  and  to  be  eaten  up  by  dependents; 
and  so,  partly  from  pride,  and  partly  from  kind-heartedness, 
he  makes  it  a  rule  always  to  give  shelter  and  maintenance  to 
his  superannuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is  that,  like  many  other  venerable  fam- 
ily establishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old  retainers 
whom  he  cannot  turn  off,  and  an  old  style  which  he  cannot 
lay  down.  His  mansion  is  like  a  great  hospital  of  invalids, 
and,  with  all  its  magnitude,  is  not  a  whit  too  large  for  its 
inhabitants.  Not  a  nook  or  corner  but  is  of  use  in  hous- 
ing some  useless  personage.  Groups  of  veteran  beef -eaters, 
gouty  pensioners,  and  retired  heroes  of  the  buttery  and  the 
larder,  are  seen  lolling  about  its  walls,  crawling  over  its 
lawns,  dozing  under  its  trees,  or  sunning  themselves  upon 
the  benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office  and  outhouse  is  garri- 
soned by  these  supernumeraries  and  their  families;  for  they 
are  amazingly  prolific,  and,  when  they  die  off,  are  sure  to 
leave  John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths  to  be  provided  for. 
A  mattock  cannot  be  struck  against  the  most  mouldering 
tumble-down  tower,  but  out  pops,  from  some  cranny  or  loop- 
hole, the  gray  prate  of  some  superannuated  hanger-on,  who 
has  lived  at  John's  expense  all  his  life,  and  makes  the  most 
grievous  outcry  at  their  pulling  down  the  roof  from  over  the 
head  of  a  worn-out  servant  of  the  family.  This  is  an  appeal 
that  John's  honest  heart  never  can  withstand ;  so  that  a  man 


JI?e  §Ketel?-BooK  343 

who  has  faithfully  eaten  his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life  is 
sure  to  be  rewarded  with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  paddocks, 
where  his  broken-down  chargers  are  turned  loose  to  graze 
undisturbed  for  the  remainder  of  their  existence — a  worthy 
example  of  grateful  recollection,  which  if  some  of  his  neigh- 
bors were  to  imitate  would  not  be  to  their  discredit.  Indeed, 
it  is  one  of  his  great  pleasures  to  point  out  these  old  steeds  to 
his  visitors,  to  dwell  on  their  good  qualities,  extol  their  past 
services,  and  boast,  with  some  little  vainglory,  of  the  peril- 
ous adventures  and  hardy  exploits  through  which  they  have, 
carried  him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for  family 
usages,  and  family  encumbrances,  to  a  whimsical  extent. 
His  manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of  gypsies;  yet  he  will  not 
suffer  them  to  be  driven  off,  because  they  have  infested  the 
place  time  out  of  mind,  and  been  regular  poachers  upon  every 
generation  of  the  family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a  dry 
branch  to  be  lopped  from  the  great  trees  that  surround  the 
house,  lest  it  should  molest  the  rooks  that  have  bred  there 
for  centuries.  Owls  have  taken  possession  of  the  dovecote; 
but  they  are  hereditary  owls,  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 
Swallows  have  nearly  choked  up  every  chimney  with  their 
nests ;  martins  build  in  every  frieze  and  cornice ;  crows  flut- 
ter about  the  towers,  and  perch  on  every  weathercock ;  and 
old  gray -headed  rats  may  be  seen  in  every  quarter  of  the 
house,  running  in  and  out  of  their  holes  undauntedly  in 
broad  daylight.  In  short,  John  has  such  a  reverence  for 
everything  that  has  been  long  in  the  family  that  he  will  not 
hear  even  of  abuses  being  reformed,  because  they  are  good 
old  family  abuses. 

All  these  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wofully  to 
drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse ;  and  as  he  prides  himself  on 
punctuality  in  money  matters,  and  wishes  to  maintain  his 
credit  in  the  neighborhood,  they  have  caused  him  great  per- 
plexity in  meeting  his  engagements.  This,  too,  has  been 
increased  by  the  altercations  and  heart-burnings  which  are 


344  U/orks  of  U/as^ip^toi? 

continually  taking  place  in  his  family.  His  children  have 
been  brought  up  to  different  callings,  and  are  of  different 
ways  of  thinking ;  and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed  to 
speak  their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise  the 
privilege  most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture  of  his 
affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the  race,  and  are 
clear  that  the  old  establishment  should  be  kept  up  in  all  its 
state,  whatever  may  be  the  cost;  others,  who  are  more  pru- 
dent and  considerate,  entreat  the  old  gentleman  to  retrench 
his  expenses,  and  to  put  his  whole  system  of  housekeeping  on 
a  more  moderate  footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at  times,  seemed 
inclined  to  listen  to  their  opinions,  but  their  wholesome  ad- 
vice has  been  completely  defeated  by  the  obstreperous  con- 
duct of  one  of  his  sons.  This  is  a  noisy  rattle-pated  fellow, 
of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his  business  to  frequent 
alehouses — is  the  orator  of  village  clubs,  and  a  complete 
oracle  among  the  poorest  of  his  father's  tenants.  No  sooner 
does  he  hear  any  of  his  brothers  mention  reform  or  retrench- 
ment, than  up  he  jumps,  takes  the  words  out  of  their  mouths, 
and  roars  out  for  an  overturn.  When  his  tongue  is  once  go- 
ing, nothing  can  stop  it.  He  rants  about  the  room ;  hectors 
the  old  man  about  his  spendthrift  practices;  ridicules  his 
tastes  and  pursuits;  insists  that  he  shall  turn  the  old  ser- 
vants out  of  doors;  give  the  broken-down  horses  to  the 
hounds;  send  the  fat  chaplain  packing,  and  take  a  field- 
preacher  in  his  place — nay,  that  the  whole  family  mansion 
shall  be  leveled  with  the  ground,  and  a  plain  one  of  brick 
and  mortar  built  in  its  place.  He  rails  at  every  social  enter- 
tainment and  family  festivity,  and  skulks  away  growling  to 
the  alehouse  whenever  an  equipage  drives  up  to  the  door. 
Though  constantly  complaining  of  the  emptiness  of  his  purse, 
yet  he  scruples  not  to  spend  all  his  pocket-money  in  these 
tavern  convocations,  and  even  runs  up  scores  for  the  liquor 
over  which  he  preaches  about  his  father's  extravagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such  thwarting 
agrees  with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He  has 
become  so  irritable,  from  repeated  crossings,  that  the  mere 


Tbe  SKetel?-BooK  345 

mention  of  retrenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a  brawl 
between  him  and  the  tavern  oracle.  As  the  latter  is  too 
sturdy  and  refractory  for  paternal  discipline,  having  grown 
out  of  all  fear  of  the  cudgel,  they  have  frequent  scenes  of 
wordy  warfare,  which  at  times  run  so  high  that  John  is  fain 
to  call  in  the  aid  of  his  son  Tom,  an  officer  who  has  served 
abroad,  but  is  at  present  living  at  home  on  half -pay.  This 
last  is  sure  to  stand  by  the  old  gentleman,  right  or  wrong ; 
likes  nothing  so  much  as  a  racketing  roistering  life;  and  is 
ready,  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to  out  saber,  and  flourish  it  over 
the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares  to  array  himself  against  paternal 
authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad,  and 
are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John's  neighborhood.  People 
begin  to  look  wise,  and  shake  their  heads,  whenever  his 
affairs  are  mentioned.  They  all  "hope  that  matters  are  not 
so  bad  with  him  as  represented;  but  when  a  man's  own  chil- 
dren begin  to  rail  at  his  extravagance  things  must  be  badly 
managed.  They  understand  he  is  mortgaged  over  head  and 
ears,  and  is  continually  dabbling  with  money-lenders.  He 
is  certainly  an  open-handed  old  gentleman,  but  they  fear  he 
has  lived  too  fast ;  indeed,  they  never  knew  any  good  come 
of  this  fondness  for  hunting,  racing,  reveling,  and  prize- 
fighting. In  short,  Mr.  Bull's  estate  is  a  very  fine  one,  and 
has  been  in  the  family  a  long  while ;  but  for  all  that,  they 
have  known  many  finer  estates  come  to  the  hammer." 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  which  these  pecuniary 
embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on  the  poor 
man  himself.  Instead  of  that  jolly  round  corporation,  and 
smug  rosy  face,  which  he  used  to  present,  he  has  of  late  be- 
come as  shriveled  and  shrunk  as  a  frostbitten  apple.  His 
scarlet  gold-laced  waistcoat,  which  bellied  out  so  bravely  in 
those  prosperous  days  when  he  sailed  before  the  wind,  now 
hangs  loosely  about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm.  His 
leather  breeches  are  all  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  and  appar- 
ently have  much  ado  to  hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn  on  both 
sides  of  his  once  sturdy  legs. 


346  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$tor)  Irvir?$ 

Instead  of  strutting  about,  as  formerly,  with  his  three- 
cornered  hat  on  one  side;  nourishing  his  cudgel,  and  bring- 
ing it  down  every  moment  with  a  hearty  thump  upon  the 
ground ;  looking  every  one  sturdily  in  the  face,  and  trolling 
out  a  stave  of  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song ;  he  now  goes  about 
whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself,  with  his  head  drooping 
down,  his  cudgel  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his  hands  thrust 
to  the  bottom  of  his  breeches  pockets,  which  are  evidently 
empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present;  yet  for 
all  this  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant  as 
ever.  If  you  drop  the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or  con- 
cern he  takes  fire  in  an  instant ;  swears  that  he  is  the  richest 
and  stoutest  fellow  in  the  country;  talks  of  laying  out  large 
sums  to  adorn  his  house  or  to  buy  another  estate;  and,  with 
a  valiant  swagger  and  grasping  of  his  cudgel,  longs  exceed- 
ingly to  have  another  bout  at  quarterstaff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in  all 
this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's  situation  with- 
out strong  feelings  of  interest.  With  all  his  odd  humors  and 
obstinate  prejudices  he  is  a  sterling-hearted  old  blade.  He 
may  not  be  so  wonderfully  fine  a  fellow  as  he  thinks  himself, 
but  he  is  at  least  twice  as  good  as  his  neighbors  represent 
hiiruy  His  virtues  are  all  his  own;  all  plain,  home-bred,  and 
unaffected.  His  very  faults  smack  of  the  raciness  of  his 
good  qualities.  His  extravagance  savors  of  his  generosity ; 
his  quarrelsomeness,  of  his  courage ;  his  credulity,  of  his  open 
faith;  his  vanity,  of  his  pride;  and  his  bluntness,  of  his  sin- 
cerity. -f-They  are  all  the  redundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal 
character.  >f-  He  is  like  his  own  oak ;  rough  without,  but  sound 
and  solid  within ;  whose  bark  abounds  with  excrescences  in 
proportion  to  the  growth  and  grandeur  of  the  timber;  and 
whose  branches  make  a  fearful  groaning  and  murmuring  in 
the  least  storm,  from  their  very  magnitude  and  luxuriance. 
There  is  something,  too,  in  the  appearance  of  his  old  family 
mansion  that  is  extremely  poetical  and  picturesque;  and  as 
long  as  it  can  be  rendered  comfortably  habitable,  I  should 


Tl?e  SKetek-BooK  347 


almost  tremble  to  see  it  meddled  with  during  the  present  con- 
flict of  tastes  and  opinions.  Some  of  his  advisers  are  no  doubt 
good  architects  that  might  be  of  service  ;  but  many,  I  fear, 
are  mere  levelers,  who,  when  they  had  once  got  to  work  with 
their  mattocks  on  the  venerable  edifice,  would  never  stop 
until  they  had  brought  it  to  the  ground,  and  perhaps  buried 
themselves  among  the  ruins.  All  that  I  wish  is  that  John's 
present  troubles  may  teach  him  more  prudence  in  future; 
that  he  may  cease  to  distress  his  mind  about  other  people's 
affairs  ;  that  he  may  give  up  the  fruitless  attempt  to  promote 
the  good  of  his  neighbors,  and  the  peace  and  happiness  of 
the  world,  by  dint  of  the  cudgel  ;  that  he  may  remain  quietly 
at  home  ;  gradually  get  his  house  into  repair  ;  cultivate  his 
rich  estate  according  to  his  fancy  ;  husband  his  income  —  if 
he  thinks  proper;  bring  his  unruly  children  into  order  —  if  he 
can;  renew  the  jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity;  and  long 
enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands,  a  green,  an  honorable,  and  a 
merry  old  age. 


THE    PRIDE    OF    THE   VILLAGE 

"May  no  wolf  howle:  no  screech-owle  stir 
A  wing  about  thy  sepulcher! 
No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  hither, 

To  starve  or  wither 

Thy  soft  sweet  earth  I  but,  like  a  spring, 
Love  keep  it  ever  flourishing." — HEERICK 

IN  the  course  of  an  excursion  through  one  of  the  remote 
counties  of  England,  I  had  struck  into  one  of  those  cross-' 
roads  that  lead  through  the  more  secluded  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, and  stopped  one  afternoon  at  a  village,  the  situation  of 
which  was  beautifully  rural  and  retired.  There  was  an  air 
of  primitive  simplicity  about  its  inhabitants  not  to  be  found 
in  the  villages  which,  lie  on  the  great  coach-roads.  I  deter- 
mined to  pass  the  night  there,  and  having  taken  an  early 
dinner,  strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neighboring  scenery. 


348  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi)  Irufi)<J 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travelers,  soon  led 
me  to  the  church,  which  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
village.  Indeed,  it  was  an  object  of  some  curiosity,  its  old 
tower  being  completely  overrun  with  ivy,  so  that  only  here 
and  there  a  jutting  buttress,  an  angle  of  gray  wall,  or  a  fan- 
tastically carved  ornament,  peered  through  the  verdant  cov- 
ering. It  was  a  lovely  evening.  The  early  part  of  the  day 
had  been  dark  and  showery,  but  in  the  afternoon  it  had 
cleared  up;  and  though  sullen  clouds  still  hung  overhead, 
yet  there  was  a  broad  tract  of  golden  sky  in  the  west,  from 
which  the  setting  sun  gleamed  through  the  dripping  leaves 
and  lighted  up  all  nature  into  a  melancholy  smile.  It  seemed 
like  the  parting  hour  of  a  good  Christian,  smiling  on  the  sins 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  giving,  in  the  serenity  of  his 
decline,  an  assurance  that  he  will  rise  again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half -sunken  tombstone  and  was 
musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  this  sober-thoughted  hour,  on 
past  scenes,  and  early  friends — on  those  who  were  distant, 
and  those  who  were  dead — and  indulging  in  that  kind  of 
melancholy  fancying  which  has  in  it  something  sweeter 
even  than  pleasure.  Every  now  and  then  the  stroke  of  a 
bell  from  the  neighboring  tower  fell  on  my  ear;  its  tones 
were  in  unison  with  the  scene,  and  instead  of  jarring,  chimed 
in  with  my  feelings;  and  it  was  some  time  before  I  recollected 
that  it  must  be  tolling  the  knell  of  some  new  tenant  of  the 
tomb. 

Presently  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across  the  village 
green;  it  wound  slowly  along  a  lane;  was  lost,  and  reap- 
peared through  the  breaks  of  the  hedges,  until  it  passed  the 
place  where  I  was  sitting.  The  pall  was  supported  by  young 
girls  dressed  in  white;  and  another,  about  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, walked  before,  bearing  a  chaplet  of  white  flowers;  a 
token  that  the  deceased  was  a  young  and  unmarried  female. 
The  corpse  was  followed  by  the  parents.  They  were  a  ven- 
erable couple,  of  the  better  order  of  peasantry.  The  father 
seemed  to  repress  his  feelings;  but  his  fixed  eye,  contracted 
brow,  and  deeply-furrowed  face,  showed  the  struggle  that 


Tl?e  SKetel?-BooK  349 

was  passing  within.  His  wife  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept 
aloud  with  the  convulsive  bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  The  bier  was 
placed  in  the  center  aisle,  and  the  chaplet  of  white  flowers, 
with  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  were  hung  over  the  seat  which 
the  deceased  had  occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of  the  funeral 
service :  for  who  is  so  fortunate  as  never  to  have  followed 
some  one  he  has  loved  to  the  tomb?  but  when  performed  over 
the  remains  of  innocence  and  beauty,  thus  laid  low  in  the 
bloom  of  existence — what  can  be  more  affecting?  At  that 
simple  but  most  solemn  consignment  of  the  body  to  the  grave 
— "Earth  to  earth— ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust!"  the  tears 
of  the  youthful  companions  of  the  deceased  flowed  unre- 
strained. The  father  still  seemed  to  struggle  with  his  feel- 
ings, and  to  comfort  himself  with  the  assurance  that  the 
dead  are  blessed  which  die  in  the  Lord ;  but  the  mother  only 
thought  of  her  child  as  a  flower  of  the  field,  cut  down  and 
withered  in  the  midst  of  its  sweetness :  she  was  like  Rachel, 
"mourning  over  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learned  the  whole  story  of  the 
deceased.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and  such  as  has  often  been 
told.  She  had  been  the  beauty  and  pride  of  the  village.  Her 
father  had  once  been  an  opulent  farmer,  but  was  reduced  in 
circumstances.  This  was  an  only  child,  and  brought  up  en- 
tirely at  home,  in  the  simplicity  of  rural  life.  She  had  been 
the  pupil  of  the  village  pastor,  the  favorite  lamb  of  his  little 
flock.  The  good  man  watched  over  her  education  with  pa- 
ternal care;  it  was  limited,  and  suitable  to  the  sphere  in 
which  she  was  to  move;  for  he  only  sought  to  make  her  an' 
ornament  to  her  station  in  life,  not  to  raise  her  above  it.  The 
tenderness  and  indulgence  of  her  parents,  and  the  exemption 
from  all  ordinary  occupations,  had  fostered  a  natural  grace 
and  delicacy  of  character  that  accorded  with  the  fragile  love- 
liness of  her  form.  She  appeared  like  some  tender  plant  of 
the  garden,  blooming  accidentally  amid  the  hardier  natives 
of  the  fields. 


550  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)$toi) 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  acknowledged 
by  her  companions,  but  without  envy ;  for  it  was  surpassed 
by  the  unassuming  gentleness  and  winning  kindness  of  her 
manners.  It  might  be  truly  said  of  her— 

'This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  greensward:  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place." 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots  which  still 
retains  some  vestiges  of  old  English  customs.  It  had  its 
rural  festivals  and  holyday  pastimes,  and  still  kept  up  some 
faint  observance  of  the  once  popular  rites  of  May.  These, 
indeed,  had  been  promoted  by  its  present  pastor,  who  was  a 
lover  of  old  customs,  and  one  of  those  simple  Christians  that 
think  their  mission  fulfilled  by  promoting  joy  on  earth  and 
good  will  among  mankind.  Under  his  auspices  the  May-pole 
stood  from  year  to  year  in  the  center  of  the  village  green; 
on  May -day  it  was  decorated  with  garlands  and  streamers; 
and  a  queen  or  lady  of  the  May  was  appointed,  as  in  former 
times,  to  preside  at  the  sports,  and  distribute  the  prizes  and 
rewards.  The  picturesque  situation  of  the  village,  and  the 
f ancif ulness  of  its  rustic  fetes,  would  often  attract  the  notice 
of  casual  visitors.  Among  these,  on  one  May-day,  was  a 
young  officer,  whose  regiment  had  been  recently  quartered 
hi  the  neighborhood.  He  was  charmed  with  the  native  taste 
that  pervaded  this  village  pageant;  but,  above  all,  with  the 
dawning  loveliness  of  the  queen  of  May.  It  was  the  village 
favorite  who  was  crowned  with  flowers,  and  blushing  and 
smiling  in  all  the  beautiful  confusion  of  girlish  diffidence  and 
delight.  The  artlessness  of  rural  habits  enabled  him  readily 
to  make  her  acquaintance;  he  gradually  won  his  way  into 
her  intimacy;  and  paid  his  court  to  her  in  that  unthinking 
way  in  which  young  officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle  with  rustic 
simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle  or  alarm. 
He  never  even  talked  of  love;  but  there  are  modes  of  mak- 


351 

ing  it,  more  eloquent  than  language,  and  which  convey  it 
subtilely  and  irresistibly  to  the  heart.  The  beam  of  the  eye, 
the  tone  of  the  voice,  the  thousand  tendernesses  which  ema- 
nate from  every  word,  and  look,  and  action — these  form  the 
true  eloquence  of  love,  and  can  always  be  felt  and  under- 
stood, but  never  described.  Can  we  wonder  that  they  should 
readily  win  a  heart,  young,  guileless,  and  susceptible?  As 
to  her,  she  loved  almost  unconsciously;  she  scarcely  inquired 
what  was  the  growing  passion  that  was  absorbing  every 
thought  and  feeling,  or  what  were  to  be  its  consequences. 
She,  indeed,  looked  not  to  the  future.  When  present,  his 
looks  and  words  occupied  her  whole  attention ;  when  absent, 
she  thought  but  of  what  had  passed  at  their  recent  inter- 
view. She  would  wander  with  him  through  the  green  lanes 
and  rural  scenes  of  the  vicinity.  He  taught  her  to  see  new 
beauties  in  nature;  he  talked  in  the  language  of  polite  and 
cultivated  life,  and  breathed  into  her  ear  the  witcheries  of 
romance  and  poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion,  between  the 
sexes,  more  pure  than  this  innocent  girl's.  The  gallant  fig- 
ure of  her  youthful  admirer,  and  the  splendor  of  his  military 
attire,  might  at  first  have  charmed  her  eye;  but  it  was  not 
these  that  had  captivated  her  heart.  Her  attachment  had 
something  hi  it  of  idolatry;  she  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a 
being  of  a  superior  order.  She  felt  in  his  society  the  enthu- 
siasm of  a  mind  naturally  delicate  and  poetical,  and  now  first 
awakened  to  a  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful  and  grand. 
Of  the  sordid  distinctions  of  rank  and  fortune  she  thought 
nothing ;  it  was  the  difference  of  intellect,  of  demeanor,  of 
manners,  from  those  of  the  rustic  society  to  which  she  had 
been  accustomed,  that  elevated  him  in  her  opinion.  She 
would  listen  to  him  with  charmed  ear  and  downcast  look  of 
mute  delight,  and  her  cheek  would  mantle  with  enthusiasm ; 
or  if  ever  she  ventured  a  shy  glance  of  timid  admiration,  it 
was  as  quickly  withdrawn,  and  she  would  sigh  and  blush  at 
the  idea  of  her  comparative  unworthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned ;  but  his  passion  waa 


352  U/orKs  of  U/aelpip^top  Iruii?$ 

mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser  nature.  He  had  begun 
the  connection  in  levity ;  for  he  had  often  heard  his  brother 
officers  boast  of  their  village  conquests  and  thought  some 
triumph  of  the  kind  necessary  to  his  reputation  as  a  man  of 
spirit.  But  he  was  too  full  of  youthful  fervor.  His  heart 
had  not  yet  been  rendered  sufficiently  cold  and  selfish  by  a 
wandering  and  a  dissipated  life ;  it  caught  fire  from  the  very 
flame  it  sought  to  kindle,  and  before  he  was  aware  of  the 
nature  of  his  situation  he  became  really  in  love. 

"What  was  he  to  do?  There  were  the  old  obstacles  which 
so  incessantly  occur  in  these  heedless  attachments.  His  rank 
in  life — the  prejudices  of  titled  connections — his  dependence 
upon  a  proud  and  unyielding  father — all  forbade  him  to  think 
of  matrimony:  but  when  he  looked  down  upon  this  inno- 
cent being,  so  tender  and  confiding,  there  was  a  purity  in  her 
manners,  a  blamelessness  in  her  life,  and  a  bewitching 
modesty  in  her  looks,  that  awed  down  every  licentious  feel- 
ing. In  vain  did  he  try  to  fortify  himself  by  a  thousand 
heartless  examples  of  men  of  fashion,  and  to  chill  the  glow 
of  generous  sentiment  with  that  cold  derisive  levity  with 
which  he  had  heard  them  talk  of  female  virtue;  whenever 
he  came  into  her  presence,  she  was  still  surrounded  by  that 
mysterious  but  impassive  charm  of  virgin  purity  in  whose 
hallowed  sphere  no  guilty  thought  can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regiment  to  repair  to 
the  continent  completed  the  confusion  of  his  mind.  He  re- 
mained for  a  short  time  in  a  state  of  the  most  painful  irreso- 
lution; he  hesitated  to  communicate  the  tidings  until  the  day 
for  marching  was  at  hand,  when  he  gave  her  the  intelligence 
in  the  course  of  an  evening  ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  had  never  before  occurred  to  her.  It 
broke  in  at  once  upon  her  dream  of  felicity ;  she  looked  upon 
it  as  a  sudden  and  insurmountable  evil,  and  wept  with  the 
guileless  simplicity  of  a  child.  He  drew  her  to  his  bosom  and 
kissed  the  tears  from  her  soft  cheek,  nor  did  he  meet  with  a 
repulse,  for  there  are  moments  of  mingled  sorrow  and  tender- 
ness which  hallow  the  caresses  of  affection.  He  was  natur- 


353 

ally  impetuous,  and  the  sight  of  beauty  apparently  yielding 
in  his  arms,  the  confidence  of  his  power  over  her,  and  the 
dread  of  losing  her  forever,  all  conspired  to  overwhelm  his 
better  feelings — he  ventured  to  propose  that  she  should  leave 
her  home  and  be  the  companion  of  his  fortunes.  \ 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and  blushed  and  fal- 
tered at  his  own  baseness;  but  so  innocent  of  mind  was  his  in- 
tended victim  that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  his 
meaning,  and  why  she  should  leave  her  native  village  and 
the  humble  roof  of  her  parents.  "When  at  last  the  nature  of 
his  proposals  flashed  upon  her  pure  mind  the  effect  was 
withering.  She  did  not  weep — she  did  not  break  forth  into 
reproaches— she  said  not  a  word — but  she  shrunk  back  aghast 
as  from  a  viper,  gave  him  a  look  of  anguish  that  pierced  to 
his  very  soul,  and,  clasping  her  hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if 
for  refuge,  to  her  father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated  and  repentant. 
It  is  uncertain  what  might  have  been  the  result  of  the  conflict 
of  his  feelings  had  not  his  thoughts  been  diverted  by  the 
bustle  of  departure.  New  scenes,  new  pleasures  and  new 
companions  soon  dissipated  his  self-reproach  and  stifled  his 
tenderness.  Yet,  amid  the  stir  of  camps,  the  revelries  of 
garrisons,  the  array  of  armies,  and  even  the  din  of  battles, 
his  thoughts  would  sometimes  steal  back  to  the  scenes  of 
rural  quiet  and  village  simplicity — the  white  cottage — the 
footpath  along  the  silver  brook  and  up  the  hawthorn  hedge, 
and  the  little  village  maid  loitering  along  it,  leaning  on  his 
arm  and  listening  to  him  with  eyes  beaming  with  unconscious 
affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received,  in  the  destruc-  '\ 
tion  of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  indeed  been  cruel.  Faintings 
and  hysterics  had  at  first  shaken  her  tender  frame,  and  were 
succeeded  by  a  settled  and  pining  melancholy.  She  had 
beheld  from  her  window  the  march  of  the  departing  troops. 
She  had  seen  her  faithless  lover  borne  off,  as  if  in  triumph, 
amid  the  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet  and  the  pomp  of  arms. 
She  strained  a  last  aching  gaze  after  him  as  the  morning  sun 


354  U/or^s  of  U/asbJoqtor; 

glittered  about  his  figure  and  his  plume  waved  in  the  breeze ; 
he  passed  away  like  a  bright  vision  from  her  sight  and  left 
her  all  in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  her  after- 
story.  It  was,  like  other  tales  of  love,  melancholy.  She 
avoided  society  and  wandered  out  alone  in  the  walks  she  had 
most  frequented  with  her  lover.  She  sought,  like  the  stricken 
deer,  to  weep  in  silence  and  loneliness,  and  brood  over  the 
barbed  sorrow  that  rankled  in  her  soul.  Sometimes  she 
would  be  seen  late  of  an  evening  sitting  in  the  porch  of  the 
village  church,  and  the  milk-maids,  returning  from  the  fields, 
would  now  and  then  overhear  her  singing  some  plaintive 
ditty  in  the  hawthorn  walk.  She  became  fervent  in  her 
devotions  at  church ;  and  as  the  old  people  saw  her  approach, 
so  wasted  away,  yet  with  a  hectic  bloom,  and  that  hallowed 
air  which  melancholy  diffuses  round  the  form,  they  would 
make  way  for  her.  as  for  something  spiritual,  and,  looking 
after  her,  would  shake  their  heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was  hastening  to  the  tomb, 
but  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place  of  rest.  The  silver  cord 
that  had  bound  her  to  existence  was  loosed,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  more  pleasure  under  the  sun.  If  ever  her  gentle 
bosom  had  entertained  resentment  against  her  lover,  it  was 
extinguished.  She  was  incapable  of  angry  passions,  and  in 
a  moment  of  saddened  tenderness  she  penned  him  a  farewell 
letter.  It  was  couched  in  the  simplest  language,  but  touch- 
ing from  its  very  simplicity.  She  told  him  that  she  was 
dying  and  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  his  conduct  was  the 
cause.  She  even  depicted  the  sufferings  which  she  had  ex- 
perienced; but  concluded  with  saying  that  she  could  not 
die  in  peace  until  she  had  sent  him  her  forgiveness  and  her 


By  degrees  her  strength  declined  and  she  could  no  longer 
leave  the  cottage.  She  could  only  totter  to  the  window, 
where,  propped  up  in  her  chair,  it  was  her  enjoyment  to  sit 
all  day  and  look  out  upon  the  landscape.  Still  she  uttered  no 
complaint,  nor  imparted  to  any  one  the  malady  that  was 


355 

preying  on  her  heart.  She  never  even  mentioned  her  lover's 
name ;  but  would  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom  and 
weep  in  silence.  Her  poor  parents  hung,  in  mute  anxiety, 
over  this  fading  blossom  of  their  hopes,  still  flattering  them- 
selves that  it  might  again  revive  to  freshness,  and  that  the 
bright  unearthly  bloom  which  sometimes  flushed  her  cheek 
might  be  the  promise  of  returning  health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them  one  Sunday 
afternoon ;  her  hands  were  clasped  in  theirs,  the  lattice  was 
thrown  open,  and  the  soft  air  that  stole  in  brought  with  it 
the  fragrance  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle,  which  her  own 
hands  had  trained  round  the  window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Bible ; 
it  spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things  and  the  joys  of 
heaven;  it  seemed  to  have  diffused  comfort  and  serenity 
through  her  bosom.  Her  eye  was  fixed  on  the  distant  vil- 
lage church — the  bell  had  tolled  for  the  evening  service — the 
last  villager  was  lagging  into  the  porch — and  everything  had 
sunk  into  that  hallowed  stillness  peculiar  to  the  day  of  rest. 
Her  parents  were  gazing  on  her  with  yearning  hearts.  Sick- 
ness and  sorrow,  which  pass  so  roughly  over  some  faces,  had 
given  to  hers  the  expression  of  a  seraph's.  A  tear  trembled 
in  her  soft  blue  eye.  —Was  she  thinking  of  her  faithless  lover? 
— or  were  her  thoughts  wandering  to  that  distant  church- 
yard, into  whose  bosom  she  might  soon  be  gathered?  ^ 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard— a  horseman  gal-, 
loped  to  the  cottage — he  dismounted  before  the  window — the 
poor  girl  gave  a  faint  exclamation  and  sunk  back  in  her  chair : 
— it  was  her  repentant  lover!  He  rushed  into  the  house  and 
flew  to  clasp  her  to  his  bosom ;  but  her  wasted  form — her  • 
death-like  countenance — so  wan,  yet  so  lovely  in  its  desolation 
—  smote  him  to  the  soul,  and  he  threw  himself  in  an  agony  at 
her  feet.  She  was  too  faint  to  rise — she  attempted  to  extend 
her  trembling  hand — her  lips  moved  as  if  she  spoke,  but  no 
word  was  articulated — she  looked  down  upon  him  with  a 
smile  of  unutterable  tenderness  and  closed  her  eyes  forever !  / 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of  this  village 


356  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)<Jtop  Iruii}<$ 

story.  They  are  but  scanty,  and  I  am  conscious  have  but 
little  novelty  to  recommend  them.  In  the  present  rage  also 
for  strange  incident  and  high-seasoned  narrative,  they  may 
appear  trite  and  insignificant,  but  they  interested  me  strongly 
at  the  tune ;  and,  taken  in  connection  with  the  affecting  cere- 
mony which  I  had  just  witnessed,  left  a  deeper  impression 
on  my  mind  than  many  circumstances  of  a  more  striking 
nature.  I  have  passed  through  the  place  since  and  visited 
the  church  again  from  a  better  motive  than  mere  curiosity. 
It  was  a  wintry  evening;  the  trees  were  stripped  of  their 
foliage,  the  churchyard  looked  naked  and  mournful,  and  the 
wind  rustled  coldly  through  the  dry  grass.  Evergreens, 
however,  had  been  planted  about  the  grave  of  the  village 
favorite,  and  osiers  were  bent  over  it  to  keep  the  turf  unin- 
jured. The  church  door  was  open  and  I  stepped  in. — There 
hung  the  chaplet  of  flowers  and  the  gloves,  as  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral :  the  flowers  were  withered,  it  is  true,  but  care 
seemed  to  have  been  taken  that  no  dust  should  soil  their 
whiteness.  I  have  seen  many  monuments  where  art  has 
exhausted  its  powers  to  awaken  the  sympathy  of  the  spec- 
tator; but  I  have  met  with  none  that  spoke  more  touchingly 
to  my  heart  than  this  simple  but  delicate  memento  of  departed 
innocence. 


THE    ANGLER 

"This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  love, 
The  lusty  sap  began  to  move, 
Fresh 'juice  did  stir  th'  embracing  vines, 
And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 
The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 
Rose  at  a  well  dissembled  fly. 
There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 
Attending  of  his  trembling  quill." 

—SIR  H.  WOTTON 

IT  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  induced  to  run 
away  from  his  family  and  betake  himself  to  a  seafaring  life 


357 

from  reading  the  history  of  Robinson  Crusoe ;  and  I  suspect 
that,  in  like  manner,  many  of  those  worthy  gentlemen  who 
are  given  to  haunt  the  sides  of  pastoral  streams  with  angle- 
rods  in  hand,  may  trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to  the 
seductive  pages  of  honest  Izaak  "Walton.  I  recollect  studying 
his  "Complete  Angler"  several  years  since,  in  company  with 
a  knot  of  friends  in  America,  and,  moreover,  that  we  were 
all  completely  bitten  with  the  angling  mania.  It  was  early 
in  the  year,  but  as  soon  as  the  weather  was  auspicious,  and 
that  the  spring  began  to  melt  into  the  verge  of  summer,  we 
took  rod  in  hand  and  sallied  into  the  country  as  stark  mad  as 
was  ever  Don  Quixote  from  reading  books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equaled  the  Don  in  the  fullness  of 
his  equipments;  being  attired  cap-a-pie  for  the  enterprise. 
He  wore  a  broad-skirted  fustian  coat,  perplexed  with  half  a 
hundred  pockets ;  a  pair  of  stout  shoes  and  leathern  gaiters ; 
a  basket  slung  on  one  side  for  fish ;  a  patent  rod ;  a  landing 
net,  and  a  score  of  other  inconveniences  only  to  be  found  in 
the  true  angler's  armory.  Thus  harnessed  for  the  field,  he 
was  as  great  a  matter  of  stare  and  wonderment  among  the 
country  folk,  who  had  never  seen  a  regular  angler,  as  was 
the  steel-clad  hero  of  La  Mancha  among  the  goatherds  of  the 
Sierra  Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain  brook,  among  the 
highlands  of  the  Hudson — a  most  unfortunate  place  for  the 
execution  of  those  piscatory  tactics  which  had  been  invented 
along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  English  rivulets.  It  was 
one  of  those  wild  streams  that  lavish,  among  our  romantic 
solitudes,  unheeded  beauties  enough  to  fill  the  sketch-book 
of  a  hunter  of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  would  leap 
down  rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades,  over  which  the 
trees  threw  their  broad  balancing  sprays,  and  long  nameless 
weeds  hung  in  fringes  from  the  impending  banks,  dripping 
with  diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it  would  brawl  and  fret 
along  a  ravine  in  the  matted  shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with 
murmurs,  and,  after  this  termagant  career,  would  steal 
forth  into  open  day  with  the  most  placid  demure  face  imagi- 


358  U/orks  of  U/asl?ir?$top  Iruir>$ 

nable;  as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a  housewife, 
after  filling  her  home  with  uproar  and  ill-humor,  come  dim- 
pling out  of  doors,  swimming  and  courtesying,  and  smiling 
upon  all  the  world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide,  at  such 
times,  through  some  bosom  of  green  meadow  land  among  the 
mountains;  where  the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by  the 
occasional  tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle  among  the 
clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  woodcutter's  ax  from  the  neighbor- 
ing forest! 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all  kinds  of  sport 
that  required  either  patience  or  adroitness,  and  had  not  angled 
above  half  an  hour  before  I  had  completely  "satisfied  the 
sentiment,"  and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of  Izaak 
Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is  something  like  poetry — a 
man  must  be  born  to  it.  I  hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish ; 
tangled  my  line  in  every  tree;  lost  my  bait;  broke  my  rod; 
until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair  and  passed  the  day 
under  the  trees  reading  old  Izaak ;  satisfied  that  it  was  his 
fascinating  vein  of  honest  simplicity  and  rural  feeling  that 
had  bewitched  me,  and  not  the  passion  for  angling.  My 
companions,  however,  were  more  persevering  in  their  delu- 
sion. I  have  them  at  this  moment  before  my  eyes,  stealing 
along  the  border  of  the  brook,  where  it  lay  open  to  the  day, 
or  was  merely  fringed  by  shrubs  and  bushes.  I  see  the 
bittern  rising  with  hollow  scream  as  they  break  in  upon  his 
rarely -invaded  haunt;  the  kingfisher  watching  them  suspi- 
ciously from  his  dry  tree,  that  overhangs  the  deep  black  mill- 
pond  in  the  gorge  of  the  hills ;  the  tortoise  letting  himself 
slip  sidewise  from  off  the  stone  or  log  on  which  he  is  sunning 
himself,  and  the  panic-struck  frog  plumping  in  headlong  as 
they  approach  and  spreading  an  alarm  throughout  the  watery 
world  around. 

I  recollect,  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watching  and 
creeping  about  for  the  greater  part  of  a  day,  with  scarcely 
any  success,  in  spite  of  all  our  admirable  apparattSs,  a  lub- 
berly country  urchin  came  down  from  the  hills  with  a  rod 


Tl?e  SKetel?-BooK  359 

made  from  a  branch  of  a  tree ;  a  few  yards  of  twine ;  and, 
as  heaven  shall  help  me !  I  believe  a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook, 
baited  with  a  vile  earth-worm — and  in  half  an  hour  caught 
more  fish  than  we  had  nibbles  throughout  the  day. 

But  above  all,  I  recollect  the  "good,  honest,  wholesome, 
hungry"  repast  which  we  made  under  a  beech-tree  just  by 
a  spring  of  pure  sweet  water  that  stole  out  of  the  side  of  a 
hill;  and  how,  when  it  was  over,  one  of  the  party  read  old 
Izaak  Walton's  scene  with  the  milkmaid,  while  I  lay  on  the 
grass  and  built  castles  in  a  bright  pile  of  clouds,  until  I  fell 
asleep.  All  this  may  appear  like  mere  egotism ;  yet  I  cannot 
refrain  from  uttering  these  recollections  which  are  passing 
like  a  strain  of  music  over  my  mind,  and  have  been  called  up 
by  an  agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed  not  long  since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Alun,  a  beau- 
tiful little  stream  which  flows  down  from  the  Welsh  hills  and 
throws  itself  into  the  Dee,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a 
group  seated  on  the  margin.  On  approaching,  I  found  it  to 
consist  of  a  veteran  angler  and  two  rustic  disciples.  The 
former  was  an  old  fellow  with  a  wooden  leg,  with  clothes 
very  much,  but  very  carefully,  patched,  betokening  poverty, 
honestly  come  by,  and  decently  maintained.  His  face  bore 
the  marks  of  former  storms,  but  present  fair  weather;  its 
furrows  had  been  worn  into  a  habitual  smile ;  his  iron-gray 
locks  hung  about  his  ears,  and  he  had  altogether  the  good- 
humored  air  of  a  constitutional  philosopher,  who  was  dis- 
posed to  take  the  world  as  it  went.  One  of  his  companions 
was  a  ragged  wight,  with  the  skulking  look  of  an  arrant 
poacher,  and  I'll  warrant  could  find  his  way  to  any  gentle- 
man's fish-pond  in  the  neighborhood  in  the  darkest  night. 
The  other  was  a  tall,  awkward  country  lad,  with  a  lounging 
gait,  and  apparently  somewhat  of  a  rustic  beau.  The  old 
man  was  busied  examining  the  maw  of  a  trout  which  he  had 
just  killed,  to  discover  by  its  contents  what  insects  were  sea- 
sonable for  bait ;  and  was  lecturing  on  the  subject  to  his  com- 
panions, who  appeared  to  listen  with  infinite  deference.  I 
have  a  kind  feeling  toward  all  "brothers  of  the  angle,"  ever 


360  U/orl^s  of  U/asl?ir><jtor> 

since  I  read  Izaak  Walton.  They  are  men,  he  affirms,  of 
a  "mild,  sweet,  and  peaceable  spirit";  and  my  esteem  for 
them  has  been  increased  since  I  met  with  an  old  "Tretyse 
of  fishing  with  the  Angle,"  in  which  are  set  forth  many  of 
the  maxims  of  their  inoffensive  fraternity.  "Take  goode 
hede,"  sayth  this  honest  little  tretyse,  "that  in  going  about 
your  disportes  ye  open  no  man's  gates  but  that  ye  shet  them 
again.  Also  ye  shall  not  use  this  foresaid  crafti  disport  for 
no  covetousness  to  the  increasing  and  sparing  of  your  money 
only,  but  principally  for  your  solace  and  to  cause  the  helth 
of  your  body  and  specyally  of  your  soule."  * 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  veteran  angler  be- 
fore me  an  exemplification  of  what  I  had  read;  and  there 
was  a  cheerful  contentedness  in  his  looks  that  quite  drew  me 
toward  him.  I  could  not  but  remark  the  gallant  manner  in 
which  he  stumped  from  one  part  of  the  brook  to  another; 
waving  his  rod  in  the  air,  to  keep  the  line  from  dragging  on 
the  ground,  or  catching  among  the  bushes;  and  tEe  adroit- 
ness with  which  he  would  throw  his  fly  to  any  particular 
place;  sometimes  skimming  it  lightly  along  a  little  rapid; 
sometimes  casting  it  into  one  of  those  dark  holes  made  by  a 
twisted  root  or  overhanging  bank,  in  which  the  large  trout 
are  apt  to  lurk.  In  the  meanwhile,  he  was  giving  instruc- 
tions to  his  two  disciples;  showing  them  the  manner  in  which 
they  should  handle  their  rods,  fix  their  flies,  and  play  them 
along  the  surface  of  the  stream.  The  scene  brought  to  my 
mind  the  instructions  of  the  sage  Piscator  to  his  scholar. 
The  country  around  was  of  that  pastoral  kind  which  Walton 
is  fond  of  describing.  It  was  a  part  of  the  great  plain  of 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  is  a  more 
industrious  and  devout  employment  than  it  is  generally  considered. 
"For  when  ye  purpose  to  go  on  your  disportes  in  fishynge,  ye  will  not 
desyre  greatlye  many  persons  with  you,  which  might  let  you  of  your 
game.  And  that  ye  may  serve  God  devoutly  in  sayinge  effectually 
your  customable  prayers.  And  thus  doying,  ye  shall  eschew  and  also 
avoyde  many  vices,  as  ydleness,  which  is  a  principall  cause  to  induce 
man  to  many  other  vices,  as  it  is  right  well  known." 


361 

Cheshire,  close  by  the  beautiful  vale  of  Gessford,  and  just 
where  the  inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to  swell  up  from  among 
fresh-smelling  meadows.  The  day,  too,  like  that  recorded 
in  his  work,  was  mild  and  sunshiny ;  with  now  and  then  a 
soft  dropping  shower  that  sowed  the  whole  earth  with  dia- 
monds. 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  angler,  and  was 
so  much  entertained  that,  under  pretext  of  receiving  instruc- 
tions in  his  art,  I  kept  company  with  him  almost  the  whole 
day ;  wandering  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  and  listening 
to  his  talk.  He  was  very  communicative,  having  all  the  easy 
garrulity  of  cheerful  old  age;  and  I  fancy  was  a  little  flat- 
tered by  having  an  opportunity  of  displaying  his  piscatory 
lore ;  for  who  does  not  like  now  and  then  to  play  the  sage? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day ;  and  had  passed 
some  years  of  his  youth  in  America,  particularly  in  Savannah, 
where  he  had  entered  into  trade,  and  had  been  ruined  by  the 
indiscretion  of  a  partner.  He  had  afterward  experienced 
many  ups  and  downs  in  life,  until  he  got  into  the  navy, 
where  his  leg  was  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  at  the  bat- 
tle of  Camperdown.  This  was  the  only  stroke  of  real  good 
fortune  he  had  ever  experienced,  for  it  got  him  a  pension, 
which,  together  with  some  small  paternal  property,  brought 
him  in  a  revenue  of  nearly  forty  pounds.  On  this  he  re- 
tired to  his  native  village,  where  he  lived  quietly  and  inde- 
pendently, and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the  "noble 
art  of  angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  Walton  attentively, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple  frankness  and 
prevalent  good-humor.  Though  he  had  been  sorely  buffeted 
about  the  world,  he  was  satisfied  that  the  world,  in  itself, 
was  good  and  beautiful.  Though  he  had  been  as  roughly 
used  in  different  countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that  is  fleeced  by 
every  hedge  and  thicket,  yet  he  spoke  of  every  nation  with 
candor  and  kindness,  appearing  to  look  only  on  the  good  side 
of  things ;  and,  above  all,  he  was  almost  the  only  man  I  had 
ever  met  with  who  had  been  an  unfortunate  adventurer  in 
*  *  *16  VOL.  I. 


of  U/asbii}<$toij  Iruip<} 

America,  and  had  honesty  and  magnanimity  enough  to  take 
the  fault  to  his  own  door  and  not  to  curse  the  country. 

The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions  I  learned  was 
the  son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat  old  widow,  who  kept  the 
village  inn,  and  of  course  a  youth  of  some  expectation,  and 
much  courted  by  the  idle,  gentleman-like  personages  of  the 
place.  In  taking  him  under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old  man 
had  probably  an  eye  to  a  privileged  corner  in  the  tap-room, 
and  an  occasional  cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  angling,  if  we  could  for- 
get, which  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruelties  and  tortures 
inflicted  on  worms  and  insects,  that  tends  to  produce  a  gen- 
tleness of  spirit  and  a  pure  serenity  of  mind.  As  the  En- 
glish  are  methodical  even  in  their  recreations,  and  are  the 
\most  scientific  of  sportsmen,  it  has  been  reduced  among  them 
to  perfect  rule  and  system.  Indeed,  it  is  an  amusement  pe- 
culiarly adapted  to  the  mild  and  cultivated  scenery  of  Eng- 
land, where  every  roughness  has  been  softened  away  from 
the  landscape.  It  is  delightful  to  saunter  along  those  limpid 
streams  which  wander,  like  veins  of  silver,  through  the 
bosom  of  this  beautiful  country ;  leading  one  through  a  di- 
versity of  small  home  scenery;  sometimes  winding  through 
ornamented  grounds;  sometimes  brimming  along  through 
rich  pasturage,  where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with  sweet- 
smelling  flowers;  sometimes  venturing  in  sight  of  villages 
and  hamlets,  and  then  running  capriciously  away  into  shady 
retirements.  The  sweetness  and  serenity  of  nature,  and  the 
quiet  watchfulness  of  the  sport,  gradually  bring  on  pleasant 
fits  of  musing;  which  are  now  and  then  agreeably  inter- 
rupted by  the  song  of  a  bird,  the  distant  whistle  of  the  peas- 
ant, or  perhaps  the  vagary  of  some  fish,  leaping  out  of  the 
still  water  and  skimming  transiently  about  its  glassy  surface. 
"When  I  would  beget  content,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "and 
increase  confidence  in  the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence 
of  Almighty  God,  I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some  gliding 
stream,  and  there  contemplate  the  lilies  that-  take  no  care, 
and  those  very  many  other  little  living  creatures  that  are  not 


363 

only  created,  but  fed  (man  knows  not  how),  by  the  goodness 
of  the  God  of  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  Him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from  one  of 
those  ancient  champions  of  angling,  which  breathes  the  same 
innocent  and  happy  spirit : 

"Let  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  the  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place ; 
Where  I  may  see  my  quill  or  cork  down  sink, 

With  eager  bite  of  Pike,  or  Bleak,  or  Dace, 
And  on  the  world  and  my  creator  think: 

While  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t'  embrace ; 
And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 

Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war  or  wantonness. 

"Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 

And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill, 
So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 

And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will 
Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil."  * 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler,  I  inquired  after  his  placS 
of  abode,  and  happening  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  • 
village  a  few  evenings  afterward,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  seek 
him  out.  I  found  him  living  in  a  small  cottage,  containing 
only  one  room,  but  a  perfect  curiosity  in  its  method  and  ar- 
rangement. It  was  on  the  skirts  of  the  village,  on  a  green 
bank,  a  little  back  from  the  road,  with  a  small  garden  in 
front,  stocked  with  kitchen  herbs  and  adorned  with  a  few 
flowers.  The  whole  front  of  the  cottage  was  overrun  with  a 
honeysuckle.  On  the  top  was  a  ship  for  a  weathercock.  The 
interior  was  fitted  up  in  a  truly  nautical  style,  his  ideas  of 
comfort  and  convenience  having  been  acquired  on  the  berth- 
deck  of  a  man-of-war,  A  hammock  was  slung  from  the  ceil- 
ing, which  in  the  daytime  was  lashed  up  so  as  to  take  but 
little  room.  From  the  center  of  the  chamber  hung  a  model 
of  a  ship,  of  his  own  workmanship.  Two  or  three  chairs,  a 
table,  and  a  large  sea-chest,  formed  the  principal  movables. 

*  J.  Davors. 


364  U/or^s  of  U/a8bii?<$tor? 

About  the  wall  were  stuck  up  naval  ballads,  such  as  "Ad- 
miral Hosier's  Ghost,"  "All  in  the  Downs,"  and  "Tom 
Bowling,"  intermingled  with  pictures  of  sea-fights,  among 
which  the  battle  of  Camperdown  held  a  distinguished  place. 
The  mantel-piece  was  decorated  with  seashells;  over  which 
hung  a  quadrant,  flanked  by  two  woodcuts  of  most  bitter- 
looking  naval  commanders.  His  implements  for  angling  were 
carefully  disposed  on  nails  and  hooks  about  the  room.  On  a 
shelf  was  arranged  his  library,  containing  a  work  on  angling, 
much  worn;  a  Bible  covered  with  canvas;  an  odd  volume  or 
two  of  voyages;  a  nautical  almanack,  and  a  book  of  songs. 

His  family  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat  with  one  eye, 
and  a  parrot  which  he  had  caught  and  tamed,  and  educated 
himself,  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  voyages;  and  which  ut- 
tered a  variety  of  sea  phrases,  with  the  hoarse  rattling  tone 
of  a  veteran  boatswain.  The  establishment  reminded  me  of 
that  of  the  renowned  Robinson  Crusoe ;  it  was  kept  in  neat 
order,  everything  being  "stowed  away"  with  the  regularity 
of  a  ship  of  war;  and  he  informed  me  that  he  "scoured  the 
deck  every  morning,  and  swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door,  smoking 
his  pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sunshine.  His  cat  was  purring 
soberly  on  the  threshold,  and  his  parrot  describing  some 
strange  evolutions  in  an  iron  ring  that  swung  in  the  center 
of  his  cage.  He  had  been  angjing_all  day,  and  gave  me  a 
history  of  his  sport  with  as  much  minuteness  as  a  general 
would  talk  over  a  campaign;  being  particularly  animated  in 
relating  the  manner  in  which  he  had  taken  a  large  trout, 
which  had  completely  tasked  all  his  skill  and  wariness,  and 
which  he  had  sent  as  a  trophy  to  mine  hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  contented  old 
age ;  and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow  like  this,  after  being  tempest- 
tossed  through  life,  safely  moored  in  a  snug  and  quiet  har- 
bor in  the  evening  of  his  days !  His  happiness,  however,  sprung 
from  within  himself,  and  was  independent  of  external  circum- 
stances ;  for  he  had  that  inexhaustible  good-nature  which  is 
the  most  precious  gift  of  Heaven ;  spreading  itself  like  oil 


Tbe  SKetel?-BooK  365 

over  the  troubled   sea  of  thought,   and  keeping  the  mind 
smooth  and  equable  in  the  roughest  weather. 

On  inquiring  further  about  him,  I  learned  that  he  was 
a  universal  favorite  in  the- village,  and  the  oracle  of  the  tap- 
room ;  where  he  delighted  the  rustics  with  his  songs,  and,  like 
Sindbad,  astonished  them  with  his  stories  of  strange  lands, 
and  shipwrecks,  and  sea-fights.  He  was  much  noticed  too  by 
gentlemen  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood ;  had  taught  sev- 
eral of  them  the  art  of  angling,  and  was  a  privileged  visitor 
to  their  kitchens.  The  whole  tenor  of  his  life  was  quiet  and 
inoffensive,  being  principally  passed  about  the  neighboring 
streams,  when  the  weather  and  season  were  favorable;  and 
at  other  times  he  employed  himself  at  home,  preparing  his 
fishing  tackle  for  the  next  campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods, 
nets,  and  flies,  for  his  patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on  Sundays,  though 
he  generally  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon.  He  had  made  it 
his  particular  request  that  when  he  died  he  should  be  buried 
in  a  green  spot,  which  he  could  see  from  his  seat  in  church, 
and  which  he  had  marked  out  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and 
had  thought  of  when  far  from  home  on  the  raging  sea,  in 
danger  of  being  food  for  the  fishes — it  was  the  spot  where 
his  father  and  mother  had  been  buried. 

I  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  growing  weary; 
but  I  could  not  refrain  from  drawing  the  picture  of  this 
worthy  "brother  of  the  angle,"  who  has  made  me  more  than 
ever  in  love  with  the  theory,  though  I  fear  I  shah1  never  be 
adroit  in  the  practice  of  his  art;  and  I  will  conclude  this 
rambling  sketch  in  the  words  of  honest  Izaak  Walton,  by 
craving  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter's  Master  upon  my  reader, ' 
"and  upon  all  that  are  true  lovers  of  virtue;  and  dare  trust 
in  His  providence;  and  be  quiet;  and  go  a  angling." 


of  U/asl?ir><Jtor>  Iruir>$ 


THE   LEGEND   OF   SLEEPY   HOLLOW 

(POUND  AMONG  THE  PAPERS  OF  THE  LATE 
DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER) 

"A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky." 

—Castle  of  Indolence 

IN  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which  indent 
the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expansion  of 
the  river  denominated  by  the  ancient  Dutch  navigators  the 
Tappaan  Zee,  and  where  they  always  prudently  shortened 
sail  and  implored  the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they 
crossed,  there  lies  a  small  market  town  or  rural  port,  which 
by  some  is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is  more  generally 
and  properly  known  by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town.  This  name 
was  given  it,  we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the  good  house- 
wives-of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the  inveterate  propensity 
of  their  husbands  to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on  market 
days.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but 
merely  advert  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authen- 
tic. Not  far  from  this  village,  perhaps  about  three  miles, 
there  is  a  little  valley  or  rather  lap  of  land  among  high  hills, 
which  is  one  of  the~quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A 
small  brook  glides  through  it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to 
lull  one  to  repose,  and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or 
tapping  of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that  ever 
breaks  in  upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in  squir- 
rel-shooting was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees  that  shades 


Jl?e  SKetel?-BooK  367 

one  side  of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon-time, 
when  all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was  startled  by  the 
roar  of  my  own  gun,  as  it  broke  the  sabbath  stillness  around 
and  was  prolonged  and  reverberated  by  the  angry  echoes. 
If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat  whither  I  might  steal  from 
the  world  and  its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the 
remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promising 
than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place  and  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from  the  original 
Dutch  settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been  known  by 
the  name  of  SLEEPY  HOLLOW,  and  its  rustic  lads  are  called  the 
Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  throughout  all  the  neighboring  country. 
A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land  and 
to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place 
was  bewitched  by  a  high  German  doctor,  during  the  early 
days  of  the  settlement ;  others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the 
prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his  powwows  there  before 
the  country  was  discovered  by  Master  Hendrick  Hudson. 
Certain  it  is,  the  place  still  continues  under  the  sway  of  some 
witching  power  that  holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good 
people,  causing  them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They 
are  given  to  all  kinds  of  marvelous  beliefs,;  are  subject  to 
trances  and  visions,  and  frequently  see  strange  sights,  and 
hear  music  and  voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood 
abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and  twilight  super- 
stitions; stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare  oftener  across  the 
valley  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  country,  and  the  night- 
mare, with  her  whole  nine  fold,  seems  to  make  it  the  /avorite, 
scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  enchanted 
region  and  seems  to  be  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  powers 
of  the  air,  is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horseback  without 
a  head.  It  is  said  by  some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian 
trooper,  whose  head  had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball 
in  some  nameless  battle  during  tho  revolutionary  war,  and 
who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  country  folk,  hurrying 


368  U/orKs  of  U/aslpii^toi?  Iruii)<j 

along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
His  haunts  are  not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times 
to  the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a  church 
that  is  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed,  certain  of  the  most  au- 
thentic historians  of  those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  hi 
collecting  and  collating  the  floating  facts  concerning  this 
specter,  allege  that,  the  body  of  the  trooper  having  been 
buried  in  the  churchyard,  the  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene 
of  battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head,  and  that  the  rushing 
speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along  the  hollow  like 
a  midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry 
to  get  back  to  the  churchyard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general,  purport  of  this  legendary  superstition, 
which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story  in  that 
region  of  shadows,  and  the  specter  is  known  at  all  the  coun- 
try firesides  by  the  name  of  The  Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have  men- 
tioned is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  valley, 
but  is  unconsciously  imbibed  by  every  one  who  resides  there 
for  a  time.  However  wide  awake  they  may  have  been  be- 
fore they  entered  that  sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a 
little  time,  to  inhale  the  witching  influence  of  the  air,  and 
begin  to  grow  imaginative — to  dream  dreams  and  see  ap- 
paritions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud ;  for  it 
is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here  and  there 
embosomed  in  the  great  State  of  New  York,  that  population, 
manners  and  customs  remain  fixed,  while  the  great  torrent 
of  migration  and  improvement,  which  is  making  such  inces- 
sant changes  in  other  parts  of  this  restless  country,  sweeps 
by  them  unobserved.  They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still 
water  which  border  a  rapid  stream,  where  we  may  see  the 
straw  and  bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolv- 
ing in  their  mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the 
passing  current.  Though  many  years  have  elapsed  since 
I  trod  the  drowsy  shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question 


Tl?e  SKeteb-BooK  .  369 

whether  I  should  not  still  find  the  same  trees  and  the  same 
families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered  bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature  there  abode,  in  a  remote  period 
of  American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since, 
a  worthy  wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane,  who  sojourned, 
or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing  the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was 
a  native  of  Connecticut,  a  State  which  supplies  the  Union 
with  pioneers  for  the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends 
forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woodmen  and  country 
schoolmasters. 

The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable  to  his  ^ 
person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with  narrow 
shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dangled  a 
mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for 
shovels,  and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together. 
His  head  was  small  and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large 
green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked 
like  a  weathercock  perched  upon  his  spindle  neck  to  tell 
which  way  the  wind  blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the 
profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and 
fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the- 
genius  of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scare- 
crow eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

His  schoolhouse  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room, 
rudely  constructed  of  logs,  the  windows  partly  glazed  and 
partly  patched  with  leaves  of  copy-books.  It  was  most  in- 
geniously secured  at  vacant  hours  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the 
handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set  against  the  window-shut- 
ters ;  so  that,  though  a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect  ease', 
he  would  find  some  embarrassment  in  getting  out — an  idea 
most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten, 
from  the  mystery  of  an  eelpot.  The  schoolhouse  stood  in 
a  rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a 
woody  hill,  with  a  brook  running  close  by  and  a  formidable 
birch-tree  growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low 
murmur  of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  lessons, 


370  .  U/orl^s  of  U/asl?ii?<Jtop 

might  be  heard  of  a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the  hum  of 
a  beehive;  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  authoritative 
voice  of  the  master  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command ;  or, 
peradventure,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch,  as  he 
urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of  knowl- 
edge. Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  conscientious  man,  that  ever 
bore  in  mind  the  golden  maxim,  "spare  the  rod  and  spoil 
the  child." — Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  certainly  were  not 
spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was  one 
of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school  who  joy  in  the  smart 
of  their  subjects;  on  the  contrary,  he  administered  justice 
with  discrimination  rather  than  severity,  taking,  the  burden 
off  the  backs  of  the  weak  and  laying  it  on  those  of  the  strong. 
Your  mere  puny  stripling,  that  winced  at  the  least  flourish 
of  the  rod,  was  passed  by  with  indulgence ;  but  the  claims  of 
justice  were  satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on  some 
little,  tough,  wrong  headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin,  who 
sulked  and  swelled  and  grew  dogged  and  sullen  beneath  the 
birch.  All  this  he  called  "doing  his  duty  by  their  parents" ; 
and  he  never  inflicted  a  chastisement  without  following  it  by 
the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the  smarting  urchin,  that 
"he  would  remember  it  and  thank  him  for  it  the  longest  day 
he  had  to  live." 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  companion 
and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys;  and  on  holy  day  afternoons 
would  convoy  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who  happened 
to  have  pretty  sisters,  or  good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted 
for  the  comforts  of  the  cupboard.  Indeed,  it  behooved  him 
to  keep  on  good  terms  with  his  pupils.  The  revenue  arising 
from  his  school  was  small,  and  would  have  been  scarcely  suf- 
ficient to  furnish  him  with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge 
feeder,  and,  though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers  of  an  ana- 
yconda;  but  to  help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  according 
/  to  country  custom  in  those  parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at  the 
houses  of  the  farmers  whose  children  he  instructed.  With 
these  he  lived  successively  a  week  at  a  time,  thus  going  the 


Tfce  SKetel?-BooK  371 

rounds  of  the  neighborhood  with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied 
up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses  of  his 
rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of  schooling 
a  grievous  burden  and  schoolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he  had 
various  ways  of  rendering  himself  both  useful  and  agreeable. 
He  assisted  the  farmers  occasionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of 
their  farms ;  helped  to  make  hay ;  mended  the  fences ;  took 
the  horses  to  water;  drove  the  cows  from  pasture,  and  cut 
wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He  laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant 
dignity  and  absolute  sway  with  which  he  lorded  it  in  his  lit- 
tle empire,  the  school,  and  became  wonderfully  gentle  and 
ingratiating.  He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers,  by 
petting  the  children,  particularly  the  youngest;  and  like  the 
lion  bold,  which  whilom  so  magnanimously  the  lamb  did 
hold,  he  would  sit  with  a  child  on  one  knee  and  rock  a  cradle 
with  his  foot  for  whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing- 
master  of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright 
shillings  by  instructing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It 
was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him  on  Sundays  to  take 
his  station  in  front  of  the  church  gallery,  with  a  band  of 
chosen  singers ;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  completely  carried 
away  the  palm  from  the  parson.  Certain  it  is,  his  voice  re- 
sounded far  above  all  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  and  there 
are  peculiar  quavers  still  to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and 
which  may  even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morning,  which 
are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended  from  the  nose  of  Icha- 
bod  Crane.  Thus  by  divers  little  makeshifts,  in  that  in- 
genious way  which  is  commonly  denominated  "by  hook 
and  by  crook,"  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably 
enough,  and  was  thought,  by  all  who  understood  nothing 
of  the  labor  of  head-work,  to  have  a  wonderfully  easy 
life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  importance 
in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood ;  being  considered 


372  U/orks  of  U/asljiij^toi)  Iruii?? 

a  kind  of  idle  gentleman-like  personage,  of  vastly  superior 
taste  and  accomplishments  to  the  rough  country  swains,  and, 
indeed,  inferior  in  learning  only  to  the  parson.  His  appear- 
ance, therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea- 
table  of  a  farmhouse  and  the  addition  of  a  supernumerary 
dish  of  cakes  or  sweetmeats,  or,  perad venture,  the  parade  "of 
a  silver  teapot.  Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly 
happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels.  How  he 
would  figure  among  them  in  the  churchyard,  between  ser- 
vices on  Sundays!  gathering  grapes  for  them  from  the  wild 
vines  that  overrun  the  surrounding  trees;  reciting  for  their 
amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones,  or  sauntering, 
with  a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along  the  banks  of  the  adjacent 
mill-pond;  while  the  more  bashful  country  bumpkins  hung 
sheepishly  back,  envying  his  superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  travel- 
ing gazette,  carrying  the  whole  budget  of  local  gossip  from 
house  to  house,  so  that  his  appearance  was  always  greeted 
with  satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover,  esteemed  by  the  women 
as  a  man  of  great  erudition,  for  he  had  read  several  books 
quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect  master  of  Cotton  Mather's 
"History  of  New  England  Witchcraft,"  in  which,  by  the 
way,  he  most  firmly  and  potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness  and 
simple  credulity.  His  appetite  for  the  marvelous,  and  his 
powers  of  digesting  it,  were  equally  extraordinary ;  and  both 
had  been  increased  by  his  residence  in  this  spell-bound  region. 
No  tale  was  too  gross  or  monstrous  for  his  capacious  swal- 
low. It  was  often  his  delight,  after  his  school  was  dis- 
missed in  the  afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed 
of  clover,  bordering  the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by 
his  schoolhouse,  and  there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful 
tales,  until  the  gathering  dusk  of  evening  made  the 
printed  page  a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he 
wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream  and  awful  wood- 
land, to  the  farmhouse  where  he  happened  to  be  quartered, 
every  sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his 


Tbe  SKetel?-Book  373 

excited  imagination :  the  moan  of  the  whip-poor-will  *  from 
the  hill-side ;  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree- toad,  that  harbinger 
of  storm ;  the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech-owl,  or  the  sud- 
den rustling  in  the  thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their 
roost.  The  fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly  in  the 
darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as  one  of  uncom- 
mon brightness  would  stream  across  his  path;  and  if,  by 
chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his  blun- 
dering flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to  give 
up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's 
token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either  to  drown 
thought  or  drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm  tunes; 
and  the  good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they  sat  by 
their  doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled  with  awe 
at  hearing  his  nasal  melody,  "in  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,"  floating  from  the  distant  hill,  or  along  the 
dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was  to  pass 
long  winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat 
spinning  by  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  sput- 
tering -along  the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  marvelous  tales  of 
ghosts  and  goblins,  and  haunted  fields  and  haunted  brooks, 
and  haunted  bridges  and  haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of 
the  headless  horseman,  or  galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hollow, 
as  they  sometimes  called  him.  He  would  delight  them 
equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful 
omens  and  portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which 
prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut;  and  would 
frighten  them  wofully  with  speculations  upon  comets  and 
shooting  stars,  and  with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world 
did  absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half  the  time 
topsy-turvy ! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly  cud- 


*  The  whip-poor-will  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night.  It 
receives  its  name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  resemble  those 
words. 


374  U/orKs  of 

dling  in  the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was  all  of  a 
ruddy  glow  from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  where,  of 
course,  no  specter  dared  to  show  its  face,  it  was  dearly  pur- 
chased by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent  walk  homeward. 
What  fearful  shapes  and  shadows  beset  his  path,  amid  the 
dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night! — With  what  wist-; 
ful  look  did  he  eye  every  trembling  ray  of  light  streaming 
across  the  waste  fields  from  some  distant  window! — How 
often  was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub  covered  with  snow, 
which,  like  a  sheeted  specter,  beset  his  very  path! — How 
often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling  awe  at  the  sound  of  his 
own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust  beneath  his  feet,  and  dread  to 
look  over  his  shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  uncouth 
being  tramping  close  behind  him ! — and  how  often  was  he 
thrown  into  complete  dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howling 
among  the  trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  galloping  Hessian 
on  one  of  his  nightly  scourings ! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night,  phan- 
toms of  the  mind,  that  walk  in  darkness :  and  though  he  had 
seen  many  specters  in  his  time,  and  had  been  more  than  once 
beset  by  Satan  in  divers  shapes  in  his  lonely  perambulations, 
yet  daylight  put  an  end  to  all  these  evils;  and  he  would  have 
passed  a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the  Devil  and  all  his 
works,  if  his  path  had  not  been  crossed  by  a  being  that 
causes  more  perplexity  to  mortal  man  than  ghosts,  goblins, 
and  the  whole  race  of  witches  put  together;  and  that  was 
— a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one  evening 
in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody,  was 
_K4Mna^Van__Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  sub- 
stantial Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh 
eighteen;  plump  as  a  partridge,  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy- 
cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's  peaches,  and  universally  famed, 
not  merely  for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She 
was  withal  a  little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even 
in  her  dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern 
fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  She  wore  the 


375 

ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold  which  her  great-great-grand- 
mother had  brought  over  from  Saardam ;  the  tempting  stom- 
acher of  the  olden  time,  and  withal  a  provokingly  short  pet- 
ticoat, to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the  country 
round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  toward  the 
sex ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  so  tempting  a  morsel 
soon  found  favor  in  his  eyes,  more  especially  after  he  had 
visited  her  in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel 
was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving,  contented,  liberal- hearted 
farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his 
thoughts  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  farm ;  but  within 
these,  everything  was  snug,  happy,  and  well-conditioned. 
He  was  satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it;  and 
piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty  abundance,  rather  than  the 
style  in  which  he  lived.  His  stronghold  was  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile 
nooks  in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestling. 
A  great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad  branches  over  it,  at  the 
foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and  sweetest 
water,  in  a  little  well  formed  of  a  barrel,  and  then  stole  spark- 
ling away  through  the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook  that 
babbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by 
the  farmhouse  was  a  vast  barn  that  might  have  served  for  a 
church,  every  window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed  bursting 
forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm ;  the  flail  was  busily  re- 
sounding within  it  from  morning  to  night;  swallows  and 
martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves;  and  rows  of 
pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the 
weather,  some  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried 
in  their  bosoms,  and  others,  swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bow- 
ing about  their  dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the 
roof.  Sleek,  unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose 
and  abundance  of  their  pens,  from  whence  sallied  forth,  now 
and  then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A 
stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining 
pond,  convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks ;  regiments  of  turkeys 


876  U/or^s  of  U/asbir)$toi> 

were  gobbling  through  the  farmyard,  and  guinea-fowls  fret- 
ting about  it  like  ill-tempered  housewives,  with  their  peevish, 
discontented  cry.  Before  the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant 
cock,  that  pattern  of  a  husband,  a  warrior  and  a  fine  gentle- 
man, clapping  his  burnished  wings  and  crowing  in  the  pride 
and  gladness  of  his  heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the  earth 
with  his  feet,  and  then  generously  calling  his  ever-hungry 
family  of  wives  and  children  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which 
he  had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered  as  he  looked  upon  this 

'/  sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  devour- 
ing mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting  pig  run- 
ning about,  with  a  pudding  in  its  belly  and  an  apple  in  its 
mouth;  the  pigeons  were  snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable 
pie  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust;  the  geese  were 
swimming  in  their  own  gravy,  and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily 
in  dishes,  like  snug  married  couples,  with  a  decent  compe- 
tency of  onion  sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw  carved  out  the 
future  sleek  side  of  bacon  and  juicy  relishing  ham;  not  a 
turkey,  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard 
under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a  necklace  of  savory 
sausages;  and  even  bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling 
on  his  back,  in  a  side  dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving 
that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask 
while  living. 

^        As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he 

rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow  lands,  the 

*\^^     rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat  and  Indian  corn, 

^^Xmd  the  orchards  burdened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which  sur- 
rounded the  warm  tenement  of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned 
\  after  the  damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these  domains,  and  his 
imagination  expanded  with  the  idea  how  they  might  be  read- 
ily turned  into  cash,  and  the  money  invested  in  immense 
tracts  of  wild  land  and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness. 
Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and  pre- 
sented to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of 
children,  mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  house- 


377 

hold  trumpery,  with  pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath ;  and 
he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at 
her  heels,  setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee — or  the  Lord 
knows  where ! 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of  his  heart  was 
complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farmhouses,  with 
high-ridged,  but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed ' 
down  from  the  first  Dutch  settlers.  The  low  projecting  eaves 
forming  a  piazza  along  the  front  capable  of  being  closed  up 
in  bad  weather.  Under  this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  vari- 
ous utensils  of  husbandry,  and  nets  for  fishing  in  the  neigh- 
boring river.  Benches  were  built  along  the  sides  for  summer 
use ;  and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at  one  end  and  a  churn  at 
the  other  showed  the  various  uses  to  which  this  important 
porch  might  be  devoted.  From  this  piazza  the  wonderful 
Ichabod  entered  the  hall,  which  formed  the  center  of  the 
mansion,  and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows  of 
resplendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser,  dazzled  his 
eyes.  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge  bag  of  wool,  ready  to  be 
spun;  in  another,  a  quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from  the 
loom ;  ears  of  Indian  corn  and  strings  of  dried  apples  and 
peaches  hung  in  gay  festoons  along  the  walls,  mingled  with 
the  gaud  of  red  pepperiif  and  a  door  left  ajar  gave  him  a 
peep  into  the  best  parlor,  where  the  claw-footed  chairs,  and 
dark  mahogany  tables,  shone  like  mirrors;  andirons,  with 
their  accompanying  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their 
covert  of  asparagus  tops;  mock-oranges  and  conch  shells 
decorated  the  mantel- piece ;  strings  of  various  colored  birds' 
eggs  were  suspended  above  it ;  a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung 
from  the  center  of  the  room,  and  a  corner  cupboard,  know- 
ingly left  open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of  old  silver  and 
well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  re- 
gions of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and 
his  only  study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless 
daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  however,  he 
had  more  real  difficulties  than  generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a 


378  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$toi? 

knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom  had  anything  but  giants, 
enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and  such  like  easily  conquered 
adversaries,  to  contend  with;  and  had  to  make  his  way 
merely  through  gates  of  iron  and  brass  and  walls  of  ada- 
mant to  the  castle-keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  con- 
fined; all  which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve 
his  way  to  the  center  of  a  Christmas  pie,  and  then  the  lady 
gave  him  her  hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the 
contrary,  had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart  of  a  country  co- 
quette, beset  with  a  labyrinth  of  whims  and  caprices,  which 
were  forever  presenting  new  difficulties  and  impediments, 
and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of  fearful  adversaries  of  real 
flesh  and  blood,  the  numerous  rustic  admirers  who  beset 
every  portal  to  her  heart ;  keeping  a  watchful  and  angry  eye 
upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly  out  in  the  common  cause 
against  any  new  competitor. 

Among  these,  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roaring, 
roistering  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or,  according  to 
the  Dutch  abbreviationj_^^ojQQ^JY!an_Brunt,  the  hero  of  the 
country  round,  which  rung  with  his  feats  of  strength  and 
hardihood.  He  was  broad-shouldered  and  double- jointed, 
/  with  short  curly  black  hair,  and  a  bluff,  but  not  unpleasant 
countenance,  having  a  mingled  air  of  fun  and  arrogance. 
From  his  Herculean  frame  and  great  powers  of  limb,  he  had 
received  the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by  which  he  was 
universally  known.  He  was  famed  for  great  knowledge  and 
skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on  horseback  as  a 
Tartar.  He  was  foremost  at  all  races  and  cock-fights,  and 
with  the  ascendency  which  bodily  strength  always  acquires 
in  rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in  all  disputes,  setting  his  hat 
on  one  side,  and  giving  his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone 
that  admitted  of  no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was  always 
ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a  frolic;  had  more  mischief  than 
ill-will  in  his  composition;  and,  with  all  his  overbearing 
roughness,  there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good-humor 
at. bottom.  He  had  three  or  four  boon  companions  of  his 
own  stamp,  who  regarded  him  as  their  model,  and  at  the 


fbe  SKeteb-BooK  379 


head  of  whom  he  scoured  the  country,  attending  every  scene 
of  feud  or  merriment  for  miles  round.  In  cold  weather, 
he  was  distinguished  by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunt- 
ing fox's  tail;  and  when  the  folks  at  a  country  gathering 
descried  this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisking  about 
among  a  squad  of  hard  riders,  they  always  stood  by  for  a 
squall.  Sometimes  his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing  along 
past  the  farmhouses  at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  like 
a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks,  and  the  old  dames,  startled  out  of 
their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  moment  till  the  hurry-scurry 
had  clattered  by,  and  then  exclaim,  "Ay,  there  goes  Brom 
Bones  and  his  gang!"  The  neighbors  looked  upon  him  with 
a  mixture  of  awe,  admiration,  and  good-  will;  and  when  any 
madcap  prank  or  rustic  brawl  occurred  in  the  vicinity, 
always  shook  their  heads,  and  warranted  Brom  Bones  was 
at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  the 
blooming  Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gallantries, 
and  though  his  amorous  toyings  were  something  like  the 
gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was  whis- 
pered that  she  did  not  altogether  discourage  his  hopes.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  his  advances  were  signals  for  rival  candidates  to 
retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to  cross  a  lion  in  his  amours  ; 
insomuch,  that  when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's 
paling,  on  a  Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master  was 
courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  "sparking,"  within,  all  other 
suitors  passed  by  in  despair  and  carried  the  war  into  other 
quarter^ 

~^a=Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod  Crane 
had  to  contend,  and  considering  all  things,  a  stouter  man 
than  he  would  have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wiser 
man  would  have  despaired.  He  had,  however,  a  happy  mix- 
ture of  pliability  and  perseverance  in  his  nature  ;  he  was  in 
form  and  spirit  like  a  supple-jack  —  yielding,  but  tough; 
though  he  bent,  he  never  broke  ;  and  though  he  bowed  be- 
neath the  slightest  pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it  was  away  — 
jerk!—  he  was  as  erect  and  carried  his  head  as  high  as  ever. 


880  U/or^s  of 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival  would 
have  been  madness ;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted 
in  his  amours,  any  more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles, 
Ichabod,  therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet  and  gently- 
insinuating  manner.  Under  cover  of  his  character  of  sing- 
ing-master, he  made  frequent  visits  at  the  farmhouse;  not 
that  he  had  anything  to  apprehend  from  the  meddlesome 
interference  of  parents,  which  is  so  often  a  stumbling-block 
in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy  indul- 
gent soul;  he  loved  his  daughter  better  even  than  his  pipe, 
and  like  a  reasonable  man,  and  an  excellent  father,  let  her 
have  her  way  in  everything.  His  notable  little  wife,  too, 
had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping  and  manage 
the  poultry ;  for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks  and  geese  are 
foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked  after,  but  girls  can  take 
care  of  themselves.  Thus,  while  the  busy  dame  bustled 
about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-whcol  at  ono  ond  of 
the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his  evening  pipe  at 
the  other,  watching  the  achievements  of  a  little  wooden  war- 
rior, who,  armed  with  a  sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  val- 
iantly fighting  the  wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In  the 
meantime,  Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit  with  the  daughter 
by  the  side  of  the  spring  under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering 
along  in  the  twilight,  that  hour  so  favorable  to  the  lover's 
eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  bow  women's  hearts  are  wooed  and 
won.  To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of  riddle  and 
admiration.  Some  seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable  point,  or 
door  of  access;  rdnle  others  have  a  thousand  avenues,  and 
may  be  captured  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  It  is  a  great 
triumph  of  skill  to  gain  the  former,  but  a  still  greater  proof 
of  generalship  to  maintain  possession  of  the  latter,  for  a  man 
must  battle  for  his  fortress  at  every  door  and  window.  He 
that  wins  a  thousand  common  hearts,  is  therefore  entitled  to 
some  renown ;  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  sway  over  the 
heart  of  a  coquette,  is  indeed  a  hero.  Certain  it  is,  this  was 
not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable  Brom  Bones  ,•  and  from  the 


381 

moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances,  the  interests  of 
the  former  evidently  declined :  his  horse  was  no  longer  seen 
tied  at  the  palings  on  Sunday  nights,  and  a  deadly  feud 
gradually  arose  between  him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his  nature, 
would  fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  warfare,  and  settled 
their  pretensions  to  the  lady  according  to  the  mode  of  those 
most  concise  and  simple  reasoners,  the  knights-errant  of  yore 
— by  single  combat;  but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious  of  the 
superior  might  of  his  adversary  to  enter  the  lists  against  him ; 
he  had  overheard  the  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would  "double 
the  schoolmaster  up,  and  -put  him  on  a  shelf";  and  he  was 
too  wary  to  give  him  an  opportunity.  There  was  something 
extremely  provoking  in  this  obstinately  pacific  system ;  it  left 
Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw  upon  the  funds  of  rustic 
waggery  in  his  disposition,  and  to  play  off  boorish  practical 
jokes  upon  his  rival.  Ichabod  became  the  object  of  whim- 
sical persecution  to  Bones  and  his  gang  of  rough  riders. 
They  harried  his  hitherto  peaceful  domains;  smoked  out  his 
singing-school,  by  stopping  up  the  chimney;  broke  into  the 
schoolhouse  at  night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of 
withe  and  window  stakes,  and  turned  everything  topsy-turvy ; 
so  that  the  poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches 
in  the  country  held  their  meetings  there.  But  what  was  still 
more  annoying,  Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turning  him 
into  ridicule  in  presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel 
dog  whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner, 
and  introduced  as  a  rival  of  Ichabod' s,  to  instruct  her  in 
psalmody. 

In  this  way,  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without  pro- 
ducing any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situations  of  the 
contending  powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon,  Ichabod, 
in  pensive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool  from  whence 
he  usually  watched  all  the  concerns  of  his  little  literary  realm. 
In  his  hand  he  swayed  a  ferule,  that  scepter  of  despotic 
power;  the  birch  of  justice  reposed  on  three  nails,  behind 


382  U/orKs  of  U/a8bii?$toi> 


the  throne,  a  constant  terror  to  evil  doers  ;  while  on  the  desk 
before  him  might  be  seen  sundry  contraband  articles  and  pro- 
hibited weapons,  detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle  urchins, 
such  as  half  -munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs,  fly-cages, 
and  whole  legions  of  rampant  little  paper  game-cocks.  Ap- 
parently there  had  been  some  appalling  act  of  justice  recently 
inflicted,  for  his  scholars  were  all  busily  intent  upon  their 
books,  or  slyly  whispering  behind  them  with  one  eye  kept 
upon  the  master;  and  a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned 
throughout  the  schoolroom.  It  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 
the  appearance  of  a  negro  in  tow-cloth  jacket  and  trousers,  a 
round  crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mercury, 
and  mounted  on  the  back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half  -broken  colt, 
which  he  managed  with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter.  He  came 
clattering  up  to  the  school  door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod 
to  attend  a  merry-making,  or  "quilting  frolic,"  to  be  held 
that  evening  at  Mynheer  Van  Tassel's;  and  having  delivered 
his  message  with  that  air  of  importance,  and  effort  at  fine 
language,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to  display  on  petty  embassies 
of  the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the  brook,  and  was  seen  scamper- 
ing away  up  the  hollow,  full  of  the  importance  and  hurry  of 
his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet  school- 
room. The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their  lessons, 
without  stopping  at  trifles;  those  who  were  nimble  skipped 
over  half  with  impunity,  and  _those  who  were  lardy  had  a 
smart  application  now  and  then  in  the  rear,  Jo  quicken  their 
speed,  or  help  them  over  a  tall  word.  Books  were  flung 
asTde^  without  being  put  away  o»  tfce"  shelves;  inkstands 
were  overturned,  benches  thrown  down,  and  the  whole  school 
was  turned  loose  an  hour  before  the  usual  time;  bursting 
forth  like  a  legion  of  young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing 
about  the  green,  in  joy  at  their  early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half  -hour 
at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best,  and  indeed 
only  suit  of  rusty  black,  and  arranging  his  looks  by  a  bit 
of  broken  looking-glass  that  hung  up  in  the  schoolhouse. 


Jlpe  SKetol?-BooK  383 

That  he  might  make  his  appearance  before  his  mistress  in 
the  true  style  of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a  horse  from  the 
farmer  with  whom  he  was  domiciliated,  a  choleric  old  Dutch- 
man, of  the  name  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  thus  gallantly 
mounted,  issued  forth  like  a  knight-errant  hi  quest  of  advent- 
ures. But  it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true  spirit  of  romantic  ^ 
story,  give  some  account  of  the  looks  and  equipments  of  my 
hero  and  his  steed.  The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken- 
down  plow-horse  that  had  outlived  almost  everything  but 
his  viciousness.  He  was  gaunt  and  shagged,  with  a  ewe 
neck  and  a  head  like  a  hammer;  his  rusty  mane  and  tail 
were  tangled  and  knotted  with  burrs ;  one  eye  had  lost  its 
pupil,  and  was  glaring  and  spectral,  but  the  other  had  the 
gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire 
and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  name,  which 
was  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  a  favorite  steed  of 
his  master's,  the  choleric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a  furious 
rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably,  some  of  his  own  spirit 
into  the  animal ;  for,  old  and  broken-down  as  he  looked,  there 
was  more  of  the  lurking  devil  in  him  than  in  any  young  filly 
in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He  rode 
with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like 
grasshoppers';  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicularly  in  his 
hand,  like  a  scepter,  and  as  the  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion 
of  his  arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings.  A 
small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty 
strip  of  forehead  might  be  called,  and  the  skirts  of  his  black 
coat  fluttered  out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was 
the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed  as  they  shambled 
out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether 
such  an  apparition  as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  day= 
light. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day ;  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden  livery 
which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abundance.  The 


384  U/orl^s  of  U/asl?ii?^tor> 

forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yellow,  while  some 
trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into 
brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming 
files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their  appearance  high 
in  the  air;  the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might  be  heard  from 
the  groves  of  beech  and  hickory-nuts,  and  the  pensive 
whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals  from  the  neighboring 
stubble-field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets.  In 
the  fullness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping  and 
frolicking,  from  bush  to  bush  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious 
from  the  very  profusion  and  variety  around  them.  There 
was  the  honest  cock-robin,  the  favorite  game  of  stripling 
sportsmen,  with  its  loud  querulous  note,  and  the  twittering 
blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds;  and  the  golden- winged 
woodpecker,  with  his  crimson  crest,  his  broad  black  gorget 
and  splendid  plumage;  and  the  cedar-bird,  with  its  red-tipped 
wings  and  yellow-tipped  tail,  and  its  little  monteiro  cap  of 
feathers;  and  the  blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his  gay 
light  blue  coat  and  white  underclothes,  screaming  and  chat- 
tering, nodding,  and  bobbing,  and  bowing,  and  pretending  to 
be  on  good  terms  with  every  songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever  open 
to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged  with  delight 
over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld 
vast  store  of  apples,  some  hanging  in  oppressive  opulence  on 
the  trees,  some  gathered  into  baskets  and  barrels  for  the 
market,  others  heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for  the  cider-press. 
Further  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its 
golden  ears  peeping  from  their  leafy  coverts  and  holding  out 
the  promise  of  cakes  and  hasty-pudding;  and  the  yellow 
pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up  their  fair  round 
bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  most 
luxurious  of  pies;  and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buck- 
wheat fields,  breathing  the  odor  of  the  beehive,  and  as  he 
beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his  mind  of  dainty 
slap-jacks,  well-buttered,  and  garnished  with  honey  or 


385 

treacle,  by  the  delicate  little  dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van 
Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and 
"sugared  suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a 
range  of  hills  which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest 
scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled 
his  broad  disk  down  into  the  west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the 
Tappaan  Zee  lay  motionless  and  glassy,  excepting  that  here 
and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved  and  prolonged  the  blue 
shadow  of  the  distant  mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated 
in  the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The 
horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing  gradually  into  a 
pure  apple  green,  and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  the 
mid-heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of 
the  precipices  that  overhung  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving 
greater  depth  to  the  dark  gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky 
sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly 
down  with  the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the 
mast ;  and  as  the  reflection  of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still 
water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  castle 
of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged  with  the 
pride  and  flower  of  the  adjacent  country.  Old  farmers,  a 
spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches, 
blue  stockings,  huge  shoes,  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles. 
Their  brisk,  withered  little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps, 
long-waisted  gowns,  homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and 
pin-cushions,  and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside. 
Buxom  lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  except- 
ing where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or  perhaps  a  white 
frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innovations.  The  sons,  in 
short  square-skirted  coats,  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass 
buttons,  and  their  hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the 
times,  especially  if  they  could  procure  an  eelskin  for  the  pur- 
pose, it  being  esteemed  throughout  the  country  as  a  potent 
nourisher  and  strengthener  of  the  hair^ 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  having 
***17  VOL.  I. 


386  U/or^s  of 

come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed  Daredevil,  a 
creature,  like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which 
no  one  but  himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in  fact,  noted 
for  preferring  vicious  animals,  given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks 
which  kept  the  rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck,  for  he 
held  a  tractable  well-broken  horse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad  of 
spipit. 

x  Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms 
that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he  en- 
tered the  state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those  of 
the  bevy  of  buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display  of  red 
and  white,  but  the  ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch  country 
tea-table,  in  the  sumptuous  time  of  autumn.  Such  heaped- 
up  platters  of  cakes  of  various  and  almost  indescribable 
kinds,  known  only  to  experienced  Dutch  housewives !  There 
was  the  doughty  doughnut,  the  tender  oly-koek,  and  the 
crisp  and  crumbling  cruller;  sweet  cakes  and  short  cakes, 
ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and  the  whole  family  of  cakes. 
And  then  there  were  apple  pies,  and  peach  pies,  and  pumpkin 
pies;  besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked  beef;  and  moreover 
delectable  dishes  of  preserved  plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears, 
and  quinces ;  not  to  mention  broiled  shad  and  roasted  chick- 
ens; together  with  bowls  of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled 
higgledy-piggledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated  them, 
with  the  motherly  teapot  sending  up  its  clouds  of  vapor  from 
the  midst — Heaven  bless  the  mark!  I  want  breath  and  time 
to  discuss  this  banquet  as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to 
get  on  with  my  story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in 
so  great  a  hurry  as  his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to 
every  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose  heart  dilated 
in  proportion  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good  cheer,  and 
whose  spirits  rose  with  eating,  as  some  men's  do  with  drink. 
He  could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round  him  as 
he  ate,  and  chuckling  with  the  possibility  that  he  might  one 
day  be  lord  of  all  this  scene  of  almost  unimaginable  luxury 
and  splendor.  Then,  he  thought,  how  soon  he'd  turn  his 


From  a  drawing  by  Wilkte,  taken  at  Seville,  1828. 

Irving,  Vol.  One,  p.  403. 


387 

back  upon  the  old  schoolhouse ;  snap  his  fingers  in  the  face 
of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  every  other  niggardly  patron,  and 
kick  any  itinerant  pedagogue  out  of  doors  that  should  dare 
to  call  him  comrade ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests 
with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and  good-humor,  round  and 
jolly  as  the  harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  attentions  were 
brief,  but  expressive^eing  confined  to  a  shake  of  the  hand, 
a  slap  on  the  shouToerV  a  loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  invita- 
tion to  "fall  to  and  help  themselves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common  room, 
or  hall,  summoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician  was  an  old 
gray-headed  negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra  of 
the  neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a  century.  His  instru- 
ment was  as  old  and  battered  as  himself.  The  greater  part 
of  the  time  he  scraped  away  on  two  or  three  strings,  accom- 
panying every  movement  of  the  bow  with  a  motion  of  the 
head ;  bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  and  stamping  with  his 
foot  whenever  a  fresh  couple  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as  upon 
his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fiber  about  him  was  idle ; 
and  to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full  motion,  and 
clattering  about  the  room,  you  would  have  thought  St.  Vitus 
himself,  that  blessed  patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before 
you  in  person.  He  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  negroes; 
who,  having  gathered,  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm 
and-  the  neighborhood,  stood  forming  a  pyramid  of  shining 
black  faces  at  every  door  and  window,  gazing  with  delight 
at  the  scene,  rolling  their  white  eyeballs,  and  showing  grin- 
ning rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could  the  flogger 
of  urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous? — the  lady 
of  his  heart  was  his  partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling  gra- 
ciously in  reply  to  all  his  amorous  oglings;  while  Brom 
Bones,  sorely  smitten  with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding 
by  himself  in  one  corner. 

"When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted  to 
a  knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  Old  Van  Tassel,  sat 


of  U/asl?iQ$top 

smoking  at  one  end  of  the  piazza,   gossiping  over  former 
times,  and  drawling  out  long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
was  one  of  those  highly  favored  places  which  abound  with 
chronicle  and  great  men.  The  British  and  American  line 
had  run  near  it  during  the  war ;  it  had,  therefore,  been  the 
scene  of  marauding,  and  infested  with  refugees,  cowboys, 
and  all  kind  of  border  chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  had 
elapsed  to  enable  each  story-teller  to  dress  up  his  tale  with  a 
little  becoming  fiction,  and,  in  the  indistinctness  of  his  recol- 

,  to  make  himself  the  hero  of  every  exploit, 
lere  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a  large  blue- 
led  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British  frigate 
with  an  old  iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only 
that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  discharge.  And  there  was 
an  old  gentleman  who  shall  be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a 
mynheer  to  be  lightly  mentioned,  who,  in  the  battle  of  White- 
plains,  being  an  excellent  master  of  defense,  parried  a  musket- 
ball  with  a  small-sword,  insomuch  that  he  absolutely  felt  it 
whiz  round  the  blade  and  glance  off  at  the  hilt;  in  proof  of 
which  he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the 
hilt  a  little  bent.  There  were  several  more  that  had  been 
equally  great  in  the  field,  not  one  of  whom  but  was  persuaded 
that  he  had  a  considerable  hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a 
happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and  ap- 
paritions that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich  in  legend- 
ary treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions  thrive 
best  in  these  sheltered  long-settled  retreats ;  but  are  trampled 
under  foot  by  the  shifting  throng  that  forms  the  population 
of  most  of  our  country  places.  Besides,  there  is  no  encour- 
agement for  ghosts  in  most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have 
scarcely  had  tune  to  finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn  them- 
selves in  their  graves,  before  their  surviving  friends  have 
traveled  away  from  the  neighborhood:  so  that  when  they 
turn  out  at  night  to  walk  their  rounds,  they  have  no  ac- 
quaintance left  to  call  upon.  This-  is  perhaps  the  reason 


389 

why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts  except  in  our  long-estab- 
lished Dutch  communities. 

"The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of  su- 
pernatural stories  in  these  parts  was  doubtless  owing  to  the 
vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  hi  the 
very  air  that  blew  from  that  haunted  region;  it  breathed 
forth  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  and  fancies  inf ecting  all  the 
land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  people  were  present  at 
Van  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were  doling  out  their  wild  and 
wonderful  legends.  Many  dismal  tales  were  told  about  fu- 
neral trains,  and  mourning  cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen 
about  the  great  tree  where  the  unfortunate  Major  Andre  was 
taken,  and  which  stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some  mention 
was  made  also  of  the  woman  in  white,  that  haunted  the  dark 
glen  at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on  win- 
ter nights  before  a  storm,  having  perished  there  in  the  snow. 
The  chief  part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the  favor- 
ite specter  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless  horseman,  who  had 
been  heard  several  times  of  late,  patroling  the  country,  and, 
it  is  said,  tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the  graves  in  the 
churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems  always  to 
have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands 
on  a  knoll,  surrounded  by  locust  trees  and  lofty  elms,  from 
among  which  its  decent,  whitewashed  walls  shine  modestly 
forth,  like  Christian  purity,  beaming  through  the  shades  of 
retirement.  A  gentle  slope  descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet 
of  water,  bordered  by  high  trees,  between  which  peeps  may 
be  caught  at  the  blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon  its 
grass-grown  yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  so 
quietly,  one  would  think  that  there  at  least  the  dead  might 
rest  in  peace.  On  one  side  of  the  church  extends  a  wide 
woody  dell,  along  which  raves  a  large  brook  among  broken 
rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a  deep  black  part  of 
the  stream,  not  far  from  the  church,  was  formerly  thrown  a 
wooden  bridge ;  the  road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge  itself, 
were  thickly  shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  which  cast  a 


390  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)^toQ  Irvip<J 

gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  daytime;  but  occasioned  a  fear- 
ful darkness  at  night.  Such  was  one  of  the  favorite  haunts 
of  the  headless  horseman,  and  the  place  where  he  was  most 
frequently  encountered.  The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brouwer, 
a  most  heretical  disbeliever  in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horse- 
man returning  from  his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was 
obliged  to  get  up  behind  him ;  how  they  galloped  over  bush 
and  brake,  over  hill  and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the 
bridge ;  when  the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a  skeleton, 
threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook,  and  sprang  away  over  the 
treetops  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice  marvel- 
ous adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light  of  the  gallop- 
ing Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed  that,  on  re- 
turning one  night  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Sing  Sing, 
he  had  been  overtaken  by  this  midnight  trooper ;  that  he  had 
offered  to  race  with  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should 
have  won  it  too,  for  Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse  all  hol- 
low, but  just  as  they  came  to  the  church  bridge  the  Hessian 
bolted,  and  vanished  in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with  which 
men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the  listeners  only 
now  and  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare  of  a 
pipe,  sunk  deep  in  the  mind  of  Ichabod.  He  repaid  them  in 
kind  with  large  extracts  from  his  invaluable  author,  Cotton 
Mather,  and  added  many  marvelous  events  that  had  taken 
place  in  his  native  State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights 
which  he  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers 
gathered  together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and  were 
heard  for  some  time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and 
over  the  distant  hills.  Some  of  the  damsels  mounted  on  pil  - 
lions  behind  their  favorite  swains,  and  their  light-hearted 
laughter,  mingling  with  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  echoed  along 
the  silent  woodlands,  sounding  fainter  and  fainter,  until  they 
gradually  died  away — and  the  late  scene  of  noise  and  frolic 


Jl?e  SKetGb-BooK  391 

was  all  silent  and  deserted.  Ichabod  only  lingered  behind, 
according  to  the  custom  of  country  lovers,  to  have  a  tete-a- 
tete  with  the  heiress,  fully  convinced  that  he  was  now  on 
the  high  road  to  success.  What  passed  at  this  interview  I 
will  not  pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I  do  not  know.  Some- 
thing, however,  I  fear  me,  must  have  gone  wrong,  for  he 
certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very  great  interval,  with  an 
air  quite  desolate  and  chapf alien. — Oh,  these  women!  these 
women !  Could  that  girl  have  been  playing  off  any  of  her 
coquettish  tricks? — Was  her  encouragement  of  the  poor  peda- 
gogue all  a  mere  sham  to  secure  her  conquest  of  his  rival? — 
Heaven  only  knows,  not  I ! — Let  it  suffice  to  say,  Ichabod 
stole  forth  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a  hen- 
roost, rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking  to 
the  right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth  on  which 
he  had  so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable,  and 
with  several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks  roused  his  steed  most 
uncourteously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in  which  he 
was  soundly  sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  corn  and  , 
oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that  Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted  and  crestfallen,  pursued  his  travel  homeward, 
along  the  sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above  Tarry 
Town,  and  which  he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the  after- 
noon. The  hour  was  as  dismal  as  himself.  Far  below  him 
the  Tappaan  Zee  spread  its  dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of 
waters,  with  here  and  there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop,  riding 
quietly  at  anchor  under  the  land.  In  the  dead  hush  of  mid- 
night he  could  even  hear  the  barking  of  the  watch-dog  from 
the  opposite  shore  of  the  Hudson ;  but  it  was  so  vague  and 
faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance  from  this  faith- 
ful companion  of  man.  Now  and  then,  too,  the  long-drawn 
crowing  of  a  cock,  accidentally  awakened,  would  sound  far, 
far  off,  from  some  farmhouse  away  among  the  hills — but 
it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in  his  ear.  No  signs  of  life 
occurred  near  him,  but  occasionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of 
a  cricket,  or  perhaps  the  guttural  twang  of  a  bullfrog  from  a 


392  UYorKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi?  Iruii?<? 

neighboring  marsh,  as  if  sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning 
suddenly  in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had  heard  in 
the  afternoon  now  came  crowding  upon  his  recollection.  The 
night  grew  darker  and  darker,  the  stars  seemed  to  sink  deeper 
in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasionally  hid  them  from 
his  sight.  He  had  never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was, 
moreover,  approaching  the  very  place  where  many  of  the 
scenes  of  the  ghost  stories  had  been  laid.  In  the  center  of 
the  road  stood  an  enormous  tulip  tree,  which  towered  like 
a  giant  above  all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were  gnarled  and 
fantastic,  large  enough  to  form  trunks  for  ordinary  trees, 
twisting  down  almost  to  the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the 
air.  It  was  connected  with  the  tragical  story  of  the  unfortu- 
nate Andre,  who  had  been  taken  prisoner  hard  by;  and  was 
universally  known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree.  The 
common  people  regarded  it  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and 
superstition,  partly  out  of  sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill- 
starred  namesake,  and  partly  from  the  tales  of  strange  sights 
and  doleful  lamentations  told  concerning  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree  he  began  to 
whistle ;  he  thought  his  whistle  was  answered :  it  was  but 
a  blast  sweeping  sharply  through  the  dry  branches.  As  he 
approached  a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something 
white  hanging  in  the  midst  of  the  tree :  he  paused,  and  ceased 
whistling;  but,  on  looking  more  narrowly,  perceived  that  it 
was  a  place  where  the  tree  had  been  scathed  by  lightning 
and  the  white  wood  laid  bare.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  groan 
• — his  teeth  chattered,  and  his  knees  smote  against  the  sad- 
/  die :  it  was  but  the  rubbing  of  one  huge  bough  upon  another, 
as  they  were  swayed  about  by  the  breeze.  He  passed  the 
tree  in  safety,  but  new  perils  lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a  small  brook 
crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly  wooded 
glen  known  by  the  name  of  Wiley's  Swamp.  A  few  rough 
logs,  laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a  bridge  over  this  stream. 


393 

On  that  side  of  the  road  where  the  brook  entered  the  wood 
a  group  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  matted  thick  with  wild  grape- 
vines, threw  a  cavernous  gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this  bridge 
was  the  severest  trial.  It  was  at  this  identical  spot  that  the 
unfortunate  Andre  was  captured,  and  under  the  covert  of 
those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen  concealed 
who  surprised  him.  This  has  ever  since  been  considered  a 
haunted  stream,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of  a  schoolboy 
who  has  to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream  his  heart  began  to  thump; 
he  summoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution,  gave  his  horse 
half  a  score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and  attempted  to  dash  briskly 
across  the  bridge;  but  instead  of  starting  forward,  the  per- 
verse old  animal  made  a  lateral  movement,  and  ran  broad- 
side against  the  fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with 
the  delay,  jerked  the  reins  on  the  other  side,  and  kicked 
lustily  with  the  contrary  foot.  It  was  all  in  vain;  his  steed 
started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road  into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder-bushes. 
The  schoolmaster  now  bestowed  both  whip  and  heel  upon  the 
starveling  ribs  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  dashed  forward,  snuf- 
fling and  snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge 
with  a  suddenness  that  had  nearly  sent  his  rider  sprawling 
over  his  head.  Just  at  this  moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the 
side  of  the  bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod.  In 
the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the  margin  of  the  brook, 
he  beheld  something  huge,  misshapen,  black  and  tower- 
ing. It  stirred  not,  but  seemed  gathered  up  in  the  gloom, 
like  some  gigantic  monster  ready  to  spring  upon  the 
traveler. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his  head 
with  terror.  What  was  to  be  done?  To  turn  and  fly  was 
now  too  late ;  and  besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  escap- 
ing ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could  ride  upon 
the  wings  of  the  wind?  Summoning  up,  therefore,  a  show' 
of  courage,  he  demanded  in  stammering  accents — "Who  are 
you?"  He  received  no  reply.  He  repeated  his  demand  in 


394  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)<}toi7  Iruin$ 

a  still  more  agitated  voice.  Still  there^sras  no  answer.  Once 
more  he  cudgeled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible  Gunpowder,  and 
shutting  his  eyes,  broke  forth  with  involuntary  fervor  into 
a  psalm  tune.  Just  then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm  put 
itself  in  motion,  and  with  a  scramble  and  a  bound  stood  at 
once  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Though  the  night  was  dark 
and  dismal,  yet.  the  form  of  the  unknown  miglit  now  in  some 
degree  be  ascertained.  He  appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of 
large  dimensions,  and  mounted  on  a  black  horse  of  powerful 
frame.  He  made  no  offer  of  molestation  or  sociability,  but 
kept  aloof  on  one  side  of  the  road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind 
side  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  had  now  got  over  his  fittght  and 
waywardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight  com- 
panion, and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure  of\  Brom 
Bones  with  the  galloping  Hessian,  now  quickened  hisi  steed, 
in  hopes  of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger,  however, 
quickened  his  horse  to  an  equal  pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up, 
and  fell  into  a  walk,  thinking  to  lag  behind — the  other  did 
the  same.  His  heart  began  to  sink  within  him ;  he  endeav- 
ored to  resume  his  psalm  tune,  but  his  parched  tongue  clove 
to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he  could  not  utter  a  stave. 
There  was  something  in  the  moody  and  dogged  silence  of 
this  pertinacious  companion  that  was  mysterious  and  appall- 
ing. It  was  soon  fearfully  accounted  for.  On  mounting  a 
rising  ground,  which  brought  the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveler 
in  relief  against  the  sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and  muffled  in 
a  cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror-struck,  on  perceiving  that  he 
was  headless !  but  his  horror  was  still  more  increased,  on 
observing  that  the  head,  which  should  have  rested  on  his 
shoulders,  was  carried  before  him  on  the  pommel  of  his  sad- 
dle! His  terror  rose  to  desperation;  he  rained  a  shower  of 
kicks  and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by  a  sudden 
movement,  to  give  his  companion  the  slip — but  the  specter 
started  full  jump  with  him.  Away,  then,  they  dashed 
through  thick  and  thin;  stones  flying  and  sparks  flashing 
at  every  bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  fluttered  in  the 


395 

air,  as  he  stretched  his  long  lank  body  away  over  his  horse's 
head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to  Sleepy 
Hollow ;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed  with  a  demon, 
instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and  plunged 
headlong  downhill  to  the  .left.  This  road  leads  through  a 
sandy  hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
where  it  crosses  the  bridge  famous  in  goblin  story;  and  just 
beyond  swells  the  green  knoll  on  which  stands  the  white- 
washed church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskillful  rider 
an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase ;  but  just  as  he  had  got 
half-way  through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  saddle  gave 
way,  and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under  him.  He  seized  it 
by  the  pommel,  and  endeavored  to  hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain ; 
and  had  just  time  to  save  himself  by  clasping  old  Gunpowder 
round  the  neck,  when  the  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he 
heard  it  trampled  under  foot  by  his  pursuer.  For  a  moment 
the  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath  passed  across  his  mind 
— for  it  was  his  Sunday  saddle ;  but  this  was  no  time  for 
petty  fears :  the  goblin  was  hard  on  his  haunches ;  and  (un- 
skillful rider  that  he  was !)  he  had  much  ado  to  maintain  his 
seat ;  sometimes  slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes  on  another, 
and  sometimes  jolted  on  the  high  ridge  of  his  horse's  back- 
bone, with  a  violence  that  he  verily  feared  would  cleave  him 
asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the  hopes 
that  the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  wavering  reflec- 
tion of  a  silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that 
he  was  not  mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of  the  church  dimly 
glaring  under  the  trees  beyond.  He  recollected  the  place 
where  Brom  Bones's  ghostly  competitor  had  disappeared. 
"If  I  can  but  reach  that  bridge,"  thought  Ichabod,  "I  am 
safe."  Just  then  he  heard  the  black  steed  panting  and  blow- 
ing close  behind  him;  he  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot 
breath.  Another  convulsive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and  old  Gun- 
powder sprung  upon  the  bridge ;  he  thundered  over  the  re- 


396  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir)$toi)  Iruii?$ 

sounding  planks;  he  gained  the  opposite  side,  and  now  Icha- 
bod  cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should  vanish, 
according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and  brimstone.  Just  then 
he  saw  the  goblin  rising  in  his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act 
of  hurling  his  head  at  him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge 
the  horrible  missile,  but  too  late.  It  encountered  his  cranium 
with  a  tremendous  crash — he  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the 
dust,  and  Gunpowder,  the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider, 
passed  by  like  a  whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without  his 
saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly  cropping 
the  grass  at  his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did  not  make  his 
appearance  at  breakfast — dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Ichabod. 
The  boys  assembled  at  the  schoolhouse,  and  strolled  idly 
about  the  banks  of  the  brook;  but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans 
Van  Ripper  now  began  to  feel  some  uneasiness  about  the 
fate  of  poor  Ichabod,  and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set 
on  foot,  and  after  diligent  investigation  they  came  upon  his 
traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  church  was 
found  the  saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt;  the  tracks  of  horses' 
hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evidently  at  furious 
speed,  were  traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the  bank 
of  a  broad  part  of  the  brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and 
black,  was  found  the  hat  of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod,  and 
close  beside  it  a  shattered  pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  schoolmaster 
was  not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of 
his  estate,  examined  the  bundle  which  contained  all  his 
worldly  effects.  They  consisted  of  two  shirts  and  a  half; 
two  stocks  for  the  neck ;  a  pair  or  two  of  worsted  stockings ; 
an  old  pair  of  corduroy  small-clothes;  a  rusty  razor;  a  book 
of  psalm  tunes  full  of  dog's  ears;  and  a  broken  pitch-pipe. 
As  to  the  books  and  furniture  of  the  schoolhouse,  they  be- 
longed to  the  community,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's  "His- 
tory of  Witchcraft,"  a  New  England  Almanac,  and  a  book 
of  dreams  and  fortune-telling;  in  which  last  was  a  sheet  of 
foolscap  much  scribbled  and  blotted,  by  several  fruitless  at- 


Tfce  Sketel?-BooK  397 

tempts  to  make  a  copy  of  verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of 
Van  Tassel.  These  magic  books  and  the  poetic  scrawl  were 
forthwith  consigned  to  the  flames  by  Hans  Van  Ripper ;  who, 
from  that  time  forward,  determined  to  send  his  children  no 
more  to  school ;  observing  that  he  never  knew  any  good  come 
of  this  same  reading  and  writing.  Whatever  money  the 
schoolmaster  possessed,  and  he  had  received  his  quarter's 
pay  but  a  day  or  two  before,  he  must  have  had  about  his 
person  at  the  time  of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at  the 
church  on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers  and  gos- 
sips were  collected  in  the  churchyard,  at  the  bridge,  and  at 
the  spot  where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been  found.  The 
stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a  whole  budget  of  others, 
were  called  to  mind;  and  when  they  had  diligently  consid- 
ered them  all,  and  compared  them  with  the  symptoms  of  the 
present  case,  they  shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  Ichabod  had  been  carried  off  by  the  galloping  Hes- 
sian. As  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody 
troubled  his  head  any  more  about  him ;  the  school  was  re- 
moved to  a  different  quarter  of  the  Hollow,  and  another 
pedagogue  reigned  in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  New 
York  on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this  ac- 
count of  the  ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought  home 
the  intelligence  that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still  alive;  that  he 
had  left  the  neighborhood  partly  through  fear  of  the  goblin 
and  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  partly  in  mortification  at  having 
been  suddenly  dismissed  by  the  heiress ;  that  he  had  changed 
his  quarters  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country ;  had  kept  school 
and  studied  law  at  the  same  time;  had  been  admitted  to  the 
bar;  turned  politician;  electioneered;  written  for  the  news- 
papers; and  finally  had  been  made  a  Justice  of  the  Ten 
Pound  Court.  Brom  Bones  too,  who,  shortly  after  his  rival's 
disappearance,  conducted  the  blooming  Katrina  in  triumph  to 
the  altar,  was  observed  to  look  exceedingly  knowing  when- 
ever the  story  of  Ichabod  was  related,  and  always  burst  into 


398  U/or^s  of 

a  hearty  laugh  at  the  mention  of  the  pumpkin ;  which  led 
some  to  suspect  that  he  knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he 
chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best  judges 
of  these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day  that  Ichabod  was  spirited 
away  by  supernatural  means ;  and  it  is  a  favorite  story  often 
told  about  the  neighborhood  round  the  winter  evening  fire. 
The  bridge  became  more  than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious 
awe ;  and  that  may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been  al- 
tered of  late  years,  so  as  to  approach  the  church  by  the  bor- 
der of  the  mill-pond.  The  schoolhouse  being  deserted,  soon 
fell  to  decay,  and  was  reported  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost 
of  the  unfortunate  pedagogue;  and  the  plow-boy,  loitering 
homeward  of  a  still  summer  evening,  has  often  fancied  his 
voice  at  a  distance,  chanting  a  melancholy  psalm  tune  among 
the  tranquil  solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND   IN  THE   HANDWRITING   OF   MB.    KNICKERBOCKER 

THE  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  the  precise  words 
in  which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the 
ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes,*  at  which  were  present  many 
of  its  sagest  and  most  illustrious  burghers.  The  narrator 
was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gentlemanly  old  fellow  in  pepper- 
and-salt  clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face ;  and  one  whom 
I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor — he  made  such  efforts  to 
be  entertaining.  When  his  story  was  concluded  there  was 
much  laughter  and  approbation,  particularly  from  two  or 
three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been  asleep  the  greater  part 
of  the  time.  There  was,  however,  one  tall,  dry-looking  old 
gentleman,  with  beetling  eyebrows,  who  maintained  a  grave 

*  New  York. 


Tbe  SKetel?-BooK  399 

and  rather  severe  face  throughout ;  now  and  then  folding  his 
arms,  inclining  his  head,  and  looking  down  upon  the  floor, 
as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in  his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your 
wary  men,  who  never  laugh  but  upon  good  grounds — when 
they  have  reason  and  the  law  on  their  side.  When  the  mirth 
of  the  rest  of  the  company  had  subsided,  and  silence  was  re- 
stored, he  leaned  one  arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and  stick- 
ing the  other  a-kimbo,  demanded,  with  a  slight  but  exceed- 
ingly sage  motion  of  the  head  and  contraction  of  the  brow, 
what  was  the  moral  of  the  story,  and  what  it  went  to  prove. 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to 
his  lips,  as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment, 
looked  at  his  inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and 
lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the  table,  observed  that  the  story 
was  intended  most  logically  to  prove : 

"That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages 
and  pleasures — provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it ; 

"That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers 
is  likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it ; 

"Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand 
of  a  Dutch  heiress  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the 
State." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer 
after  this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocina- 
tion of  the  syllogism ;  while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper- 
and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of  a  triumphant  leer.  At 
length  he  observed,  that  all  this  was  very  well,  but  still  he 
thought  the  story  a  little  on  the  extravagant — there  were  one 
or  two  points  on  which  he  had  his  doubts : 

"Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller,  "as  to  that  matter) 
I  don't  believe  one-half  of  it  myself."  D.  K. 


400  U/orl^s  of  U/asbiij<Jtor>  Irvii?$ 


L'ENVOY 

"Go,  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  this  be  thy  pray  ere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct,  in  any  part  or  all." 

—CHAUCER'S  Bell  Dame  sans  Mercie 

IN  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketch- Book,  the 
Author  cannot  but  express  his  deep  sense  of  the  indulgence 
with  which  his  first  has  been  received,  and  of  the  liberal  dis- 
position that  has  been  evinced  to  treat  him  with  kindness  as 
a  stranger.  Even  the  critics,  whatever  may  be  said  of  them 
by  others,  he  has  found  to  be  a  singularly  gentle  and  good- 
natured  race ;  it  is  true  that  each  has  in  turn  objected  to  some 
one  or  two  articles,  and  that  these  individual  exceptions,  taken 
in  the  aggregate,  would  amount  almost  to  a  total  condemna- 
tion of  his  work ;  but  then  he  has  been  consoled  by  observing 
that  what  one  has  particularly  censured,  another  has  as  par- 
ticularly praised:  and  thus,  the  encomiums  being  set  off 
against  the  objections,  he  finds  his  work,  upon  the  whole, 
commended  far  beyond  its  deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting  much  of  this 
kind  favor  by  not  following  the  counsel  that  has  been  liberally 
bestowed  upon  him ;  for  where  abundance  of  valuable  advice 
is  given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a  man's  own  fault  if  he  should 
go  astray.  He  only  can  say,  in  his  vindication,  that  he  faith- 
fully determined,  for  a  time,  to  govern  himself  in  his  second 
volume  by  the  opinions  passed  upon  his  first ;  but  he  was  soon 
brought  to  a  stand  by  the  contrariety  of  excellent  counsel. 
One  kindly  advised  him  to  avoid  the  ludicrous;  another,  to 
shun  the  pathetic ;  a  third  assured  him  that  he  was  tolerable 


Jl?e  Sketel^BooK  401 

at  description,  but  cautioned  him  to  leave  narrative  alone; 
while  a  fourth  declared  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  knack  at 
turning  a  story,  and  was  really  entertaining  when  in  a  pen- 
sive mood,  but  was  grievously  mistaken  if  he  imagined  him- 
self to  possess  a  spark  of  humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  who  each  in 
turn  closed  some  particular  path,  but  left  him  all  the  world 
beside  to  range  in,  he  found  that  to  follow  all  their  counsels 
would,  in  fact,  be  to  stand  still.  He  remained  for  a  time 
sadly  embarrassed ;  when,  all  at  once,  the  thought  struck  him 
to  ramble  on  as  he  had  begun;  that  his  work  being  mis- 
cellaneous, and  written  for  different  humors,  it  could  not  be 
expected  that  anyone  would  be  pleased  with  the  whole ;  but 
that  if  it  should  contain  something  to  suit  each  reader,  his 
end  would  be  completely  answered.  Few  guests  sit  down  to 
a  varied  table  with  an  equal  appetite  for  every  dish.  One  has 
an  elegant  horror  of  a  roasted  pig;  another  holds  a  curry  or 
a  devil  in  utter  abomination;  a  third  cannot  tolerate  the  an- 
cient flavor  of  venison  and  wild  fowl ;  and  a  fourth,  of  truly 
masculine  stomach,  looks  with  sovereign  contempt  on  those 
knickknacks  here  and  there  dished  up  for  the  ladies.  Thus 
each  article  is  condemned  in  its  turn ;  and  yet,  amid  this  va- 
riety of  appetites,  seldom  does  a  dish  go  away  from  the  table 
without  being  tasted  and  relished  by  some  one  or  other  of  the 
guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  serve  up  this 
second  volume  in  the  same  heterogeneous  way  with  his  first; 
simply  requesting  the  reader,  if  he  should  find  here  and  there 
something  to  please  him,  to  rest  assured  that  it  was  written 
expressly  for  intelligent  readers  like  himself;  but  entreating 
him,  should  he  find  anything  to  dislike,  to  tolerate  it,  as  one 
of  those  articles  which  the  Author  has  been  obliged  to  write 
for  readers  of  a  less  refined  taste. 

To  be  serious. — The  Author  is  conscious  of  the  numerous 
faults  and  imperfections  of  his  work;  and  well  aware  how 
little  he  is  disciplined  and  accomplished  in  the  arts  of  author- 
ship. His  deficiencies  are  also  increased  by  a  diffidence  aris- 


402  U/orKs  of  U/asl?iQ($top  Iruipq 

ing  from  his  peculiar  situation.  He  finds  himself  writing  in 
a  strange  land,  and  appearing  before  a  public  which  he  has 
been  accustomed,  from  childhood,  to  regard  with  the  highest 
feelings  of  awe  and  reverence.  He  is  full  of  solicitude  to  de- 
serve their  approbation,  yet  finds  that  very  solicitude  contin- 
ually embarrassing  his  powers,  and  depriving  him  of  that 
ease  and  confidence  which  are  necessary  to  successful  exer- 
tion. Still  the  kindness  with  which  he  is  treated  encourages 
him  to  go  on,  hoping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire  a  steadier 
footing;  and  thus  he  proceeds,  half- venturing,  half-shrink- 
ing, surprised  at  his  own  good  fortune,  and  wondering  at  his 
own  temerity. 


END  OF   ' '  THE   SKETCH-BOOK  " 


LEGENDS 

OF 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  SPAIN 


PREFACE 

FEW  events  in  history  have  been  so  signal  and  striking  in 
their  main  circumstances,  and  so  overwhelming  and  enduring 
in  their  consequences,  as  that  of  the  conquest  of  Spain  by  the 
Saracens;  yet  there  are  few  where  the  motives,  and  char- 
acters, and  actions  of  the  agents  have  been  enveloped  in 
more  doubt  and  contradiction.  As  in  the  memorable  story 
of  the  Fall  of  Troy,  we  have  to  make  out,  as  well  as  we  can, 
the  veritable  details  through  the  mists  of  poetic  fiction ;  yet 
poetry  has  so  combined  itself  with,  and  lent  its  magic  color- 
ing to,  every  fact,  that,  to  strip  it  away,  would  be  to  reduce 
the  story  to  a  meager  skeleton  and  rob  it  of  all  its  charms. 
>/The  storm  of  Moslem  invasion  that  swept  so  suddenly  over 
the  peninsula,  silenced  for  a  time  the  faint  voice  of  the  muse, 
and  drove  the  sons  of  learning  from  their  cells.  The  pen 
was  thrown  aside  to  grasp  the  sword  and  spear,  and  men 
were  too  much  taken  up  with  battling  against  the  evils  which 
beset  them  on  every  side  to  find  tune  or  inclination  to  record 
them. 

When  the  nation  had  recovered  in  some  degree  from  thg 
effects  of  this  astounding  blow,  or  rather  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  tremendous  reverse  which  it  produced,  and  sage 
men  sought  to  inquire  and  write  the  particulars,  it  was  too 
late  to  ascertain  them  in  their  exact  verity.  The  gloom  and 
melancholy  that  had  overshadowed  the  land  had  given  birth 
to  a  thousand  superstitious  fancies;  the  woes  and  terrors  of 

(403) 


404  preface 

the  past  were  clothed  with  supernatural  miracles  and  portents, 
and  the  actors  in  the  fearful  drama  had  already  assumed  the 
dubious  characteristics  of  romance.  Or  if  a  writer  from 
among  the  conquerors  undertook  to  touch  upon  the  theme,  it 
was  embellished  with  all  the  wild  extravagancies  of  an  ori- 
ental imagination;  which  afterward  stole  into  the  graver 
works  of  the  monkish  historians. 

Hence,  the  earliest  chronicles  which  treat  of  the  downfall 
of  Spain,  are  apt  to  be  tinctured  with  those  saintly  miracles 
which  savor  of  the  pious  labors  of  the  cloister,  or  those 
fanciful  fictions  that  betray  their  Arabian  authors.  Yet, 
from  these  apocryphal  sources,  the  most  legitimate  and  ac- 
credited Spanish  histories  have  taken  their  rise,  as  pure  rivers 
may  be  traced  up  to  the  fens  and  mantled  pools  of  a  morass. 
It  is  true,  the  authors,  with  cautious  discrimination,  have 
discarded  those  particulars  too  startling  for  belief,  and  have 
culled  only  such  as,  from  their  probability  and  congruity, 
might  be  safely  recorded  as  historical  facts;  yet,  scarce  one 
of  these  but  has  been  connected  in  the  original  with  some 
romantic  fiction,  and,  even  in  its  divorced  state,  bears  traces 
of  its  former  alliance. 

To  discard,  however,  everything  wild  and  marvelous  in 
this  portion  of  Spanish  history,  is  to  discard  some  of  its  most 
beautiful,  instructive,  and  national  features;  it  is  to  judge  of 
Spain  by  the  standard  of  probability  suited  to  tamer  and 
more  prosaic  countries.  Spain  is  virtually  a  land  of  poetry 
and  romance,  where  every-day  life  partakes  of  adventure, 
and  where  the  least  agitation  or  excitement  carries  every- 
thing up  into  extravagant  enterprise  and  daring  exploit. 
The  Spaniards,  in  all  ages,  have  been  of  swelling  and  brag- 
gart spirit,  soaring  in  thought,  pompous  in  word,  and  valiant, 
though  vainglorious,  in  deed.  Their  heroic  aims  have  tran- 
scended the  cooler  conceptions  of  their  neighbors,  and  their 
reckless  daring  has  borne  them  on  to  achievements  which 
prudent  enterprise  could  never  have  accomplished.  Since  the 
time,  too,  of  the  conquest  and  occupation  of  their  country  by 
the  Arabs,  a  strong  infusion  of  Oriental  magnificence  has 


,  Ce^epds  of  tl?e  ^opquest  of  Spaip  405 

entered  into  the  national  character,  and  rendered  the  Span- 
iard distinct  from  every  other  nation  of  Europe. 

In  the  following  pages,  therefore,  the  author  has  ventured 
to  dip  more  deeply  into  the  enchanted  fountains  of  old  Spanish 
chronicles  than  has  usually  been  done  by  those  who,  in 
modern  times,  have  treated  of  the  eventful  period  of  the  con- 
quest ;  but  in  so  doing,  he  trusts  he  will  illustrate  more  fully 
the  character  of  the  people  and  the  times.  He  has  thought 
proper  to  throw  these  records  into  the  form  of  legends,  not 
claiming  for  them  the  authenticity  of  sober  history,  yet  giv- 
ing nothing  that  has  not  historical  foundation.  All  the  facts 
herein  contained,  however  extravagant  some  of  them  may 
be  deemed,  will  be  found  in  the  works  of  sage  and  reverend 
chroniclers  of  yore,  growing  side  by  side  with  long  acknowl- 
edged truths,  and  might  be  supported  by  learned  and  imposing 
references  in  the  margin. 


THE   LEGEND    OF   DON    RODERICK* 


CHAPTER  ONE 

OF  THE  ANCIENT  INHABITANTS   OF   SPAIN — OF   THE    MISRULE 
OF  WITIZA  THE  WICKED 

SPAIN,  or  Iberia,  as  it  was  called  in  ancient  days,  has 
been  a  country  harassed  from  the  earliest  times  by  the  in- 
vader. The  Celts,  the  Greeks,  the  Phenecians,  the  Cartha- 
genians,  by  turns,  or  simultaneously,  infringed  its  territories ;' 

*  Many  of  the  facts  in  this  legend  are  taken  from  an  old  chronicle, 
written  in  quaint  and  antiquated  Spanish  and  professing  to  be  a  trans- 
lation from  the  Arabian  chronicle  of  the  Moor  Rasis,  by  Mohammed,  a 
Moslem  writer,  and  Gil  Perez,  a  Spanish  priest.  It  is  supposed  to  be  a 
piece  of  literary  mosaic  work,  made  up  from  both  Spanish  and  Ara- 
bian chronicles ;  yet,  from  this  work  most  of  the  Spanish  historians 
have  drawn  their  particulars  relative  to  the  fortunes  of  Don  Roderick. 


406  U/or^s  of 

drove  the  native  Iberians  from  their  rightful  homes,  and 
established  colonies  and  founded  cities  in  the  land.  It  subse- 
quently fell  into  the  all-grasping  power  of  Rome,  remaining 
for  some  time  a  subjugated  province;  and  when  that  gigantic 
empire  crumbled  into  pieces,  the  Suevi,  the  Alani,  and  the 
Vandals,  those  barbarians  of  the  north,  overran  and  ravaged 
this  devoted  country,  and  portioned  out  the  soil  among  them. 

Their  sway  was  not  of  long  duration.  In  the  fifth  century 
the  Goths,  who  were  then  the  allies  of  Rome,  undertook  the 
reconquest  of  Iberia,  and  succeeded,  after  a  desperate  struggle 
of  three  years'  duration.  They  drove  before  them  the  bar- 
barous hordes,  their  predecessors,  intermarried,  and  incorpo- 
rated themselves  with  the  original  inhabitants,  and  founded 
a  powerful  and  splendid  empire,  comprising  the  Iberian  pen- 
insula, the  ancient  Narbonnaise,  afterward  called  Gallia 
Gotica,  or  Gothic  Gaul,  and  a  part  of  the  African  coast  called 
Tingitania.  A  new  nation  was,  in  a  manner,  produced  by 
this  mixture  of  the  Goths  and  Iberians.  Sprang  from  a 
union  of  warrior  races,  reared  and  nurtured  amid  the  din  of 
arms,  the  Gothic  Spaniards,  if  they  may  so  be  termed,  were 
a  warlike,  unquiet,  yet  high-minded  and  heroic  people. 
Their  simple  and  abstemious  habits,  their  contempt  for  toil 
and  suffering,  and  their  love  of  daring  enterprise,  fitted  them 
for  a  soldier's  life.  So  addicted  were  they  to  war  that,  when 
they  had  no  external  foes  to  contend  with,  they  fought  with 
one  another;  and,  when  engaged  in  battle,  says  an  old 
chronicler,  the  very  thunders  and  lightnings  of  heaven  could 
not  separate  them.* 

For  two  centuries  and  a  half  the  Gothic  power  remained 
unshaken,  and  the  scepter  was  wielded  by  twenty-five  suc- 
cessive kings.  The  crown  was  elective,  in  a  council  of  pala- 
tines, composed  of  the  bishops  and  nobles,  who,  while  they 
swore  allegiance  to  the  newly-made  sovereign,  bound  him  by 
a  reciprocal  oath  to  be  faithful  to  his  trust.  Their  choice 


*  Florian  de  Ocampo,  lib.  3,  c.  12.    Justin  Abrev.  Trog.  Pomp.  L.  44 
Bleda.  Cronica,  L.  2,  c.  3. 


of  tfoe  <?oi>quest  of  Spalr?  407 

was  made  from  among  the  people,  subject  only  to  one  condi- 
tion, that  the  king  should  be  of  pure  Gothic  blood.  But 
though  the  crown  was  elective  in  principle,  it  gradually 
became  hereditary  from  usage,  and  the  power  of  the  sovereign 
grew  to  be  almost  absolute.  The  king  was  commander-in- 
chief  of  the  armies;  the  whole  patronage  of  the  kingdom 
was  in  his  hands;  he  summoned  and  dissolved  the  national 
councils ;  he  made  and  revoked  laws  according  to  his  pleas- 
ure; and,  having  ecclesiastical  supremacy,  he  exercised  a 
sway  even  over  the  consciences  of  his  subjects. 

The  Goths,  at  the  time  of  their  inroad,  were  stout  adher- 
ents to  the  Arian  doctrines ;  but  after  a  time  they  embraced 
the  Catholic  faith,  which  was  maintained  by  the  native 
Spaniards  free  from  many  of  the  gross  superstitions  of  the 
church  at  Rome,  and  this  unity  of  faith  contributed  more 
than  anything  else  to  blend  and  harmonize  the  two  races  into 
one.  The  bishops  and  other  clergy  were  exemplary  in  their 
lives,  and  aided  to  promote  the  influence  of  the  laws  and 
maintain  the  authority  of  the  state.  The  fruits  of  regular 
and  secure  government  were  manifest  in  the  advancement  of 
agriculture,  commerce,  and  the  peaceful  arts;  and  in  the 
increase  of  wealth,  of  luxury,  and  refinement ;  but  there  was 
a  gradual  decline  of  the  simple,  hardy,  and  warlike  habits 
that  had  distinguished  the  nation  in  its  semi-barbarous  days. 

Such  was  the  state  of  Spain  when,  in  the  year  of  Redemp- 
tion 701,  Witiza  was  elected  to  the  Gothic  throne.  The  be- 
ginning of  his  reign  gave  promise  of  happy  days  to  Spain, 
He  redressed  grievances,  moderated  the  tributes  of  his  sub- 
jects, and  conducted  himself  with  mingled  mildness  and 
energy  in  the  administration  of  the  laws.  In  a  little  while^ 
however,  he  threw  off  the  mask  and  showed  himself  in  his 
true  nature,  cruel  and  luxurious. 

Two  of  his  relatives,  sons  of  a  preceding  king,  awakened 
his  jealousy  for  the  security  of  his  throne.  One  of  them, 
named  Favila,  Duke  of  Cantabria,  he  put  to  death,  and 
would  have  inflicted  the  same  fate  upon  his  son  Pelayo,  but 
that  the  youth  was  beyond  his  reach,  being  preserved  by 


408  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$toi}  Iruii?$ 

Providence  for  the  future  salvation  of  Spain.  The  other 
object  of  his  suspicion  was  Theodofredo,  who  lived  retired 
from  court.  The  violence  of  Witiza  reached  him  even  in  his 
retirement.  His  eyes  were  put  out,  and  he  was  immured 
within  a  castle  at  Cordova.  Roderick,  the  youthful  son  of 
Theodofredo,  escaped  to  Italy,  where  he  received  protection 
from  the  Romans. 

Witiza  now  considering  himself  secure  upon  the  throne, 
gave  the  reins  to  his  licentious  passions,  and  soon,  by  his 
tyranny  and  sensuality,  acquired  the  appellation  of  Witiza 
the  Wicked.  Despising  the  old  Gothic  continence,  and 
yielding  to  the  example  of  the  sect  of  Mahomet,  which  suited 
his  lascivious  temperament,  he  indulged  in  a  plurality  of 
wives  and  concubines,  encouraging  his  subjects  to  do  the 
same.  Nay,  he  even  sought  to  gain  the  sanction  of  the 
church  to  his  excesses,  promulgating  a  law  by  which  the 
clergy  were  released  from  their  vows  of  celibacy,  and  per- 
mitted to  marry  and  to  entertain  paramours. 

The  sovereign  Pontiff  Constantino  threatened  to  depose 
and  excommunicate  him,  unless  he  abrogated  this  licentious 
law;  but  Witiza  set  him  at  defiance,  threatening,  like  his 
Gothic  predecessor  Alaric,  to  assail  the  eternal  city  with  his 
troops,  and  make  spoil  of  her  accumulated  treasures.*  ''We 
will  adorn  our  damsels,"  said  he,  "with  the  jewels  of  Rome, 
and  replenish  our  coffers  from  the  mint  of  St.  Peter." 

Some  of  the  clergy  opposed  themselves  to  the  innovating 
spirit  of  the  monarch,  and  endeavored  from  the  pulpits  to 
rally  the  people  to  the  pure  doctrines  of  their  faith;  but  they 
were  deposed  from  their  sacred  office  and  banished  as  sedi- 
tious mischief-makers.  The  church  of  Toledo  continued 
refractory;  the  archbishop  Sindaredo,  it  is  true,  was  disposed 
to  accommodate  himself  to  the  corruptions  of  the  times,  but 
the  prebendaries  battled  intrepidly  against  the  new  laws  of 
the  monarch,  and  stood  manfully  in  defense  of  their  vows  of 


*  Chron.  de  Luitprando  709.     Abaroa,  Anales  de  Aragon  (e)  Ma- 
hometismo,  Fol.  5. 


Ce$ei)ds  of  tl?e  ^oijquest  of  Spaii)  409 

chastity.  "Since  the  church  of  Toledo  will  not  yield  itself 
to  our  will,"  said  Witiza,  "it  shall  have  two  husbands."  So 
saying,  he  appointed  his  own  brother  Oppas,  at  that  time 
archbishop  of  Seville,  to  take  a  seat  with  Sindaredo,  in  the 
episcopal  chair  of  Toledo,  and  made  him  primate  of  Spain. 
He  was  a  priest  after  his  own  heart,  and  seconded  him  in  all 
his  profligate  abuses. 

It  was  in  vain  the  denunciations  of  the  church  were 
fulminated  from  the  chair  of  St.  Peter;  Witiza  threw  off  all 
allegiance  to  the  Roman  Pontiff,  threatening  with  pain  of 
death  those  who  should  obey  the  papal  mandates.  "We  will 
suffer  no  foreign  ecclesiastic,  with  triple  crown,"  said  he, 
"to  domineer  over  our  dominions." 

The  Jews  had  been  banished  from  the  country  during  the 
preceding  reign,  but  Witiza  permitted  them  to  return,  and 
even  bestowed  upon  their  synagogues  privileges  of  which  he 
had  despoiled  the  churches.  The  cliildren  of  Israel,  when 
scattered  throughout  the  earth  by  the  fall  of  Jerusalem,  had 
carried  with  them  into  other  lands  the  gainful  arcana  of 
traffic,  and  were  especially  noted  as  opulent  money-changers 
and  curious  dealers  in  gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones;  on 
this  occasion,  therefore,  they  were  enabled,  it  is  said,  to  repay 
the  monarch  for  his  protection  by  bags  of  money  and  caskets 
of  sparkling  gems,  the  rich  product  of  their  Oriental  com- 
merce. 

The  kingdom  at  this  time  enjoyed  external  peace,  but 
there  were  symptoms  of  internal  discontent.  Witiza  took  the 
alarm ;  he  remembered  the  ancient  turbulence  of  the  nation, 
and  its  proneness  to  internal  feuds.  Issuing  secret  orders, 
therefore,  in  all  directions,  he  dismantled  most  of  the  cities,' 
and  demolished  the  castles  and  fortresses  that  might  serve 
as  rallying  points  for  the  factious.  He  disarmed  the  people 
also,  and  converted  the  weapons  of  war  into  the  implements 
of  peace.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  as  if  the  millennium  were 
dawning  upon  the  land,  for  the  sword  was  beaten  into  a 
plowshare  and  the  spear  into  a  pruning-hook. 

While  thus  the  ancient  martial  fire  of  the  nation  was  ex- 
*  *  *18  VOL.  I. 


410  U/or^s  of  U/asfyir^top 

tinguished,  its  morals  likewise  were  corrupted.  The  altars 
were  abandoned,  the  churches  closed,  wide  disorder  and  sen- 
suality prevailed  throughout  the  land,  so  that,  according  to 
the  old  chroniclers,  within  the  compass  of  a  few  short  years, 
"Witiza  the  Wicked  taught  all  Spain  to  sin." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE   RISE   OF  DON   RODERICK — HIS   GOVERNMENT 

WOE  to  the  ruler  who  founds  his  hope  of  sway  on  the 
weakness  or  corruption  of  the  people.  The  very  measures 
taken  by  Witiza  to  perpetuate  his  power  insured  his  down- 
fall. While  the  whole  nation,  under  his  licentious  rule,  was 
sinking  into  vice  and  effeminacy,  and  the  arm  of  war  was 
unstrung,  the  youthful  Roderick,  son  of  Theodofredo,  was 
training  up  for  action  in  the  stern  but  wholesome  school  of 
adversity.  He  instructed  himself  in  the  use  of  arms ;  became 
adroit  and  vigorous  by  varied  exercises ;  learned  to  despise  all 
danger,  and  inured  himself  to  hunger  and  watchfulness  and 
the  rigor  of  the  seasons. 

His  merits  and  misfortunes  procured  him  many  friends 
among  the  Romans;  and  when,  being  arrived  at  a  fitting 
age,  he  undertook  to  revenge  the  wrongs  of  his  father  and 
his  kindred,  a  host  of  brave  and  hardy  soldiers  nocked  to  his 
standard.  With  these  he  made  his  sudden  appearance  in 
Spain.  The  friends  of  his  house  and  the  disaffected  of  all 
classes  hastened  to  join  him,  and  he  advanced  rapidly  and 
without  opposition,  through  an  unarmed  and  enervated  land. 

Witiza  saw  too  late  the  evil  he  had  brought  upon  himself. 
He  made  a  hasty  levy,  and  took  the  field  with  a  scantily 
equipped  and  undisciplined  host,  but  was  easily  routed  and 
made  prisoner,  and  the  whole  kingdom  submitted  to  Don 
Roderick. 

The   ancient  city  of   Toledo,  the  royal  residence  of  the 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tl?e  ?oi)quest  of  Spaii>  411 

Gothic  kings,  was  the  scene  of  high  festivity  and  solemn 
ceremonial  on  the  coronation  of  the  victor.  Whether  he  was 
elected  to  the  throne  according  to  the  Gothic  usage,  or  seized 
it  by  the  right  of  conquest,  is  a  matter  of  dispute  among  his- 
torians, but  all  agree  that  the  nation  submitted  cheerfully  to 
his  sway,  and  looked  forward  to  prosperity  and  happiness 
under  their  newly  elevated  monarch.  His  appearance  and 
character  seemed  to  justify  the  anticipation.  He  was  in  the 
splendor  of  youth,  and  of  a  majestic  presence.  His  soul  was 
bold  and  daring,  and  elevated  by  lofty  desires.  He  had  a 
sagacity  that  penetrated  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  a  magnifi- 
cent spirit  that  won  all  hearts.  Such  is  the  picture  which 
ancient  writers  give  of  Don  Roderick,  when,  with  all  the 
stern  and  simple  virtues  unimpaired,  which  ha  had  acquired 
in  adversity  and  exile,  and  flushed  with  the  triumph  of  a 
pious  revenge,  he  ascended  the  Gothic  throne. 

Prosperity,  however,  is  the  real  touchstone  of  the  human 
heart ;  no  sooner  did  Roderick  find  himself  in  possession  of 
the  crown,  than  the  love  of  power  and  the  jealousy  of  rule 
were  awakened  in  his  breast.  His  first  measure  was  against 
Witiza,  who  was  brought  in  chains  into  his  presence.  Rod- 
erick beheld  the  captive  monarch  with  an  unpitying  eye,  re- 
membering only  his  wrongs  and  cruelties  to  his  father.  "Let 
the  evils  he  has  inflicted  on  others  be  visited  upon  his  own 
head,"  said  he;  "as  he  did  unto  Theodofredo,  even  so  be  it 
done  unto  him."  So  the  eyes  of  Witiza  were  put  out,  and 
he  was  thrown  into  the  same  dungeon  at  Cordova  in  which 
Theodofredo  had  languished.  There  he  passed  the  brief 
remnant  of  his  days  in  perpetual  darkness,  a  prey  to  wretch- 
edness and  remorse. 

Roderick  now  cast  an  uneasy  and  suspicious  eye  upon 
Evan  and  Siseburto,  the  two  sons  of  Witiza.  Fearful  lest 
they  should  foment  some  secret  rebellion,  he  banished  them 
the  kingdom.  They  took  refuge  in  the  Spanish  domin- 
ions in  Africa,  where  they  were  received  and  harbored  by 
Requila,  governor  of  Tangier,  out  of  gratitude  for  favors 
which  he  had  received  from  their  late  father.  There  they 


4J2  U/or^s  of 

remained  to  brood  over  their  fallen  fortuned,  and  to  aid  in 
working  out  the  future  woes  of  Spain. 

Their  uncle  Oppas,  bishop  of  Seville,  who  had  been  made 
co-partner,  by  Witiza,  in  the  archiepiscopal  chair  at  Toledo, 
would  have  likewise  fallen  under  the  suspicion  of  the  king ; 
but  he  was  a  man  of  consummate  art,  and  vast  exterior  sanc- 
tity, and  won  upon  the  good  graces  of  the  monarch.  He 
was  suffered,  therefore,  to  retain  his  sacred  office  at  Seville; 
but  the  see  of  Toledo  was  given  in  charge  to  the  venerable 
Urbino ;  and  the  law  of  "Witiza  was  revoked  that  dispensed 
the  clergy  from  their  vows  of  celibacy. 

The  jealousy  of  Roderick  for  the  security  of  his  crown 
was  soon  again  aroused,  and  his  measures  were  prompt  and 
severe.  Having  been  informed  that  the  governors  of  certain 
castles  and  fortresses  in  Castile  and  Andalusia  had  conspired 
against  him,  he  caused  them  to  be  put  to  death  and  their 
strongholds  to  be  demolished.  He  now  went  on  to  imitate 
the  pernicious  policy  of  his  predecessor,  throwing  down  walls 
and  towers,  disarming  the  people,  and  thus  incapacitating 
them  from  rebellion.  A  few  cities  were  .permitted  to  retain 
their  fortifications,  but  these  were  intrusted  to  alcaydes  in 
whom  he  had  especial  confidence;  the  greater  part  of  the 
kingdom  was  left  defenseless;  the  nobles,  who  had  been 
roused  to  temporary  manhood  during  the  recent  stir  of  war, 
sunk  back  into  the  inglorious  state  of  inaction  which  had  dis- 
graced them  during  the  reign  of  Witiza,  passing  their  time 
in  feasting  and  dancing  to  the  sound  of  loose  and  wanton 
minstrelsy.*  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  recognize  in  these 
idle  wassailers  and  soft  voluptuaries  the  descendants  of  the 
stern  and  frugal  warriors  of  the  frozen  north ;  who  had  braved 
flood  and  mountain,  and  heat  and  cold,  and  had  battled  their 
way  to  empire  across  half  a  world  in  arms. 

They  surrounded  their  youthful  monarch,  it  is  true,  with  a 
blaze  of  military  pomp.  Nothing  could  surpass  the  splendor 
of  their  arms,  which  were  embossed  and  enameled,  and  en= 

*  Mariana,  Hist.  Esp.  L.  6,  c.  21. 


of  tl?e  ^opquest  of  Spaip  413 

riched  with  gold  and  jewels  and  curious  devices;  nothing 
could  be  more  gallant  and  glorious  than  their  array;  it  was 
all  plume  and  banner  and  silken  pageantry,  the  gorgeous  trap- 
pings for  tilt  and  tourney  and  courtly  revel;  but  the  iron  soul 
of  war  was  wanting. 

How  rare  it  is  to  learn  wisdom  from  the  misfortunes  of 
others.  With  the  fate  of  Witiza  full  before  his  eyes,  Don 
Roderick  indulged  in  the  same  pernicious  errors,  and  was 
doomed,  in  like  manner,  to  prepare  the  way  for  his  own 
perdition. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

OF  THE  LOVES  OF  EODEEICK  AND  THE  PRINCESS  ELYATA 

As  yet  the  heart  of  Roderick,  occupied  by  the  struggles 
of  his  early  life,  by  warlike  enterprises  and  by  the  inquietudes 
of  newly-gotten  power,  had  been  insensible  to  the  charms  of 
women;  but  in  the  present  voluptuous  calm,  the  amorous 
propensities  of  his  nature  assumed  their  sway.  There  are 
divers  accounts  of  the  youthful  beauty  who  first  found  favor 
in  his  eyes,  and  was  elevated  by  him  to  the  throne.  We  fol- 
low in  our  legend  the  details  of  an  Arabian  chronicler,*  au- 
thenticated by  a  Spanish  poet.f  Let  those  who  dispute  our 
facts  produce  better  authority  for  their  contradiction. 

Among  the  few  fortified  places  that  had  not  been  dis- 
mantled by  Don  Roderick  was  the  ancient  city  of  Denia, 
situated  on  the  Mediterranean  coast,  and  defended  on  a  rock- 
built  castle  that  overlooked  the  sea. 

The  Alcayde  of  the  castle,  with  many  of  the  people  of 
Denia,  was  one  day  on  his  knees  in  the  chapel,  imploring  the 
Virgin  to  allay  a  tempest  which  was  strewing  the  coast  with 
wrecks,  when  a  sentinel  brought  word  that  a  Moorish  cruiser 
was  standing  for  the  land.  The  Alcayde  gave  orders  to  ring 

*  Perdida  de  Espana  por  Abulcasim  Tarif  Abentarique,  lib.  1. 
t  Lope  de  Vega. 


4:14  U/orKs  of 

the  alarm  bells,  light  signal  fires  on  the  hilltops,  and  rouse 
the  country,  for  the  coast  was  subject  to  cruel  maraudings 
from  the  Barbary  cruisers. 

In  a  little  while  the  horsemen  of  the  neighborhood  were 
seen  pricking  along  the  beach,  armed  with  such  weapons  as 
they  could  find,  and  the  Alcayde  and  his  scanty  garrison  de- 
scended from  the  hill.  In  the  meantime  the  Moorish  bark 
came  rolling  and  pitching  toward  the  land.  As  it  drew  near, 
the  rich  carving  and  gilding  with  which  it  was  decorated,  its 
silken  bandaroles  and  banks  of  crimson  oars,  showed  it  to  be 
no  warlike  vessel,  but  a  sumptuous  galiot  destined  for  state 
and  ceremony.  It  bore  the  marks  of  the  tempest;  the  masts 
were  broken,  the  oars  shattered,  and  fragments  of  snowy 
sails  and  silken  awnings  were  fluttering  in  the  blast. 

As  the  galiot  grounded  upon  the  sand,  the  impatient  rab- 
ble rushed  into  the  surf  to  capture  and  make  spoil;  but 
were  awed  into  admiration  and  respect  by  the  appearance 
of  the  illustrious  company  on  board.  There  were  Moors 
of  both  sexes  sumptuously  arrayed,  and  adorned  with  pre- 
cious jewels,  bearing  the  demeanor  of  persons  of  lofty  rank. 
Among  them  shone  conspicuous  a  youthful  beauty,  mag- 
nificently attired,  to  whom  all  seemed  to  pay  reverence. 

Several  of  the  Moors  surrounded  her  with  drawn  swords, 
threatening  death  to  any  that  approached;  others  sprang 
from  the  bark,  and,  throwing  themselves  on  their  knees  be- 
fore the  Alcayde,  implored  him,  by  his  royal  honor  and 
courtesy  as  a  knight,  to  protect  a  royal  virgin  from  injury 
and  insult. 

"You  behold  before  you,"  said  they,  "the  only  daughter 
of  the  king  of  Algiers,  the  betrothed  bride  of  the  son  of  the 
king  of  Tunis.  We  were  conducting  her  to  the  court  of  her 
expecting  bridegroom,  when  a  tempest  drove  us  from  our 
course,  and  compelled  us  to  take  refuge  on  your  coast.  Be 
not  more  cruel  than  the  tempest,  but  deal  nobly  with  that 
which  even  sea  and  storm  have  spared." 

The  Alcayde  listened  to  their  prayers.  He  conducted  the 
princess  and  her  train  to  the  castle,  where  every  honor  due 


Ce^epds  of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spaip  415 

to  her  rank  was  paid  her.  Some  of  her  ancient  attendants 
interceded  for  her  liberation,  promising  countless  sums  to  be 
paid  by  her  father  for  her  ransom ;  but  the  Alcayde  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  all  their  golden  offers.  "She  is  a  royal  cap- 
tive," said  he;  "it  belongs  to  my  sovereign  alone  to  dispose 
of  her. ' '  After  she  had  reposed,  therefore,  for  some  days  at 
the  castle,  and  recovered  from  the  fatigue  and  terror  of  the 
seas,  he  caused  her  to  be  conducted,  with  all  her  train,  in 
magnificent  state  to  the  court  of  Don  Roderick. 

The  beautiful  Elyata  *  entered  Toledo  more  like  a  tri- 
umphant sovereign  than  a  captive.  A  chosen  band  of  Chris- 
tian horsemen,  splendidly  armed,  appeared  to  wait  upon  her 
as  a  mere  guard  of  honor.  She  was  surrounded  by  the  Moor- 
ish damsels  of  her  train,  and  followed  by  her  own  Moslem 
guards,  all  attired  with  the  magnificence  that  had  been  in- 
tended to  grace  her  arrival  at  the  court  of  Tunis.  The  prin- 
cess was  arrayed  in  bridal  robes,  woven  in  the  most  costly 
looms  of  the  Orient ;  her  diadem  sparkled  with  diamonds,  and 
was  decorated  with  the  rarest  plumes  of  the  bird  of  paradise, 
and  even  the  silken  trappings  of  her  palfrey,  which  swept  the 
ground,  were  covered  with  pearls  and  precious  stones.  As 
this  brilliant  cavalcade  crossed  the  bridge  of  the  Tagus,  all 
Toledo  poured  forth  to  behold  it,  and  nothing  was  heard 
throughout  the  city  but  praises  of  the  wonderful  beauty  of 
the  princess  of  Algiers.  King  Roderick  came  forth,  attended 
by  the  chivalry  of  his  court,  to  receive  the  royal  captive.  His 
recent  voluptuous  life  had  disposed  him  for  tender  and  amor- 
ous affections,  and  at  the  first  sight  of  the  beautiful  Elyata 
he  was  enraptured  with  her  charms.  Seeing  her  face  clouded 
with  sorrow  and  anxiety,  he  soothed  her  with  gentle  and 
courteous  words,  and  conducting  her  to  a  royal  palace,  "Be- 
hold," said  he,  "thy  habitation,  where  no  one  shall  molest 
thee ;  consider  thyself  at  home  in  the  mansion  of  thy  father, 
and  dispose  of  anything  according  to  thy  will." 

Here  the  princess  passed  her  time  with  the  female  attend- 

*  By  some  she  is  called  Zara. 


416  U/orKs  of 

ants  who  had  accompanied  her  from  Algiers;  and  no  one  but 
the  king  was  permitted  to  visit  her,  who  daily  became  more 
and  more  enamored  of  his  lovely  captive,  and  sought  by  ten- 
der assiduity  to  gain  her  affections.  The  distress  of  the  prin- 
cess at  her  captivity  was  soothed  by  this  gentle  treatment. 
She  was  of  an  age  when  sorrow  cannot  long  hold  sway  over 
the  heart.  Accompanied  by  her  youthful  attendants,  she 
ranged  the  spacious  apartments  of  the  palace,  and  sported 
among  the  groves  and  alleys  of  its  garden.  Every  day  the 
remembrance  of  the  paternal  home  grew  less  and  less  pain- 
ful, and  the  king  became  more  and  more  amiable  in  her  eyes, 
and  when,  at  length,  he  offered  to  share  his  heart  and  throne 
with  her,  she  listened  with  downcast  looks  and  kindling 
blushes,  but  with  an  air  of  resignation. 

One  obstacle  remained  to  the  complete  fruition  of  the 
monarch's  wishes,  and  this  was  the  religion  of  the  princess. 
Roderick  forthwith  employed  the  archbishop  of  Toledo  to  in- 
struct the  beautiful  Elyata  in  the  mysteries  of  the  Christian 
faith.  The  female  intellect  is  quick  in  perceiving  the  merits 
of  new  doctrines;  the  archbishop,  therefore,  soon  succeeded 
in  converting,  not  merely  the  princess,  but  most  of  her  at- 
tendants, and  a  day  was  appointed  for  their  public  baptism. 
The  ceremony  was  performed  with  great  pomp  and  solemnity, 
in  the  presence  of  all  the  nobility  and  chivalry  of  the  court. 
The  princess  and  her  damsels,  clad  in  white,  walked  on  foot 
to  the  cathedral,  while  numerous  beautiful  children,  arrayed 
as  angels,  strewed  their  path  with  flowers;  and  the  arch- 
bishop meeting  them  at  the  portal,  received  them,  as  it  were, 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  church.  The  princess  abandoned  her 
Moorish  appellation  of  Elyata,  and  was  baptized  by  the  name 
of  Exilona,  by  which  she  was  thenceforth  called,  and  has 
generally  been  known  in  history. 

The  nuptials  of  Roderick  and  the  beautiful  convert  took 
place  shortly  afterward,  and  were  celebrated  with  great  mag- 
nificence. There  were  jousts,  and  tourneys,  and  banquets, 
and  other  rejoicings,  which  lasted  twenty  days,  and  were  at- 
tended by  the  principal  nobles  from  all  parts  of  Spain.  After 


Ce<$er>d8  of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spairj  417 

these  were  over,  such  of  the  attendants  of  the  princess  as  re- 
fused to  embrace  Christianity  and  desired  to  return  to  Africa 
were  dismissed  with  munificent  presents ;  and  an  embassy 
was  sent  to  the  king  of  Algiers,  to  inform  him  of  the  nuptials 
of  his  daughter,  and  to  proffer  him  the  friendship  of  King 
Roderick.* 

CHAPTER  FOUR 

OF     COUNT     JULIAN 

FOR  a  time  Don  Roderick  lived  happily  with  his  young 
and  beautiful  queen,  and  Toledo  was  the  seat  of  festivity  and 
splendor.  The  principal  nobles  throughout  the  kingdom 
repaired  to  his  court  to  pay  him  homage  and  to  receive  his 
commands;  and  none  were  more  devoted  in  their  reverence 
than  those  who  were  obnoxious  to  suspicion  from  their  con- 
nection with  the  late  king. 

Among  the  foremost  of  these  was  Count  Julian,  a  man 
destined  to  be  infamously  renowned  in  the  dark  story  of  his 
country's  woes.  He  was  of  one  of  the  proudest  Gothic 
families,  lord  of  Consuegra  and  Algeziras,  and  connected  by 
marriage  with  "Witiza  and  the  Bishop  Oppas;  his  wife,  the 
Countess  Frandina,  being  their  sister.  In  consequence  of 
this  connection,  and  of  his  own  merits,  he  had  enjoyed  the 
highest  dignities  and  commands,  being  one  of  the  Espatorios, 
or  royal  sword-bearers;  an  office  of  the  greatest  confidence 
about  the  person  of  the  sovereign,  f  He  had,  moreover,  been 

*  "Como  esta  Infanta  era  muy  hermosa,  y  el  Rey  [Don  Rodrigo] 
dispuesta  y  gentil  honibre,  entro  por  medio  el  amor  y  aficion,  y  junto 
con  el  regalo  con  que  la  avia  mandado  hospedar  y  servir  ful  causa  que 
el  rey  persuadio  esta  Infanta,  que  si  se  tornava  a  su  ley  de  christiano  la 
tomaria  por  muger,  y  que  la  haria  senora  de  sus  Reynos.  Con  esta 
persuasion  ella  fue  contenta,  y  aviendose  vuelto  Christiana,  se  caso  con 
ella,  y  se  celebraron  sus  bodas  con  muchas  nestas  y  regozijos,  cotno 
era  razon." — Abulcasim,  conq'st  de  Espan,  cap.  3. 

f  Condes  Espatorios;  so  called  from  the  drawn  swords  of  ample 
size  and  breadth,  with  which  they  kept  guard  in  the  antechambers  of 


418  U/orl^s  of  U/asl?ii?$toi> 

intrusted  with  the  military  government  of  the  Spanish  pos- 
sessions on  the  African  coast  of  the  strait,  which  at  that  time 
were  threatened  by  the  Arabs  of  the  East,  the  followers  of 
Mahomet,  who  were  advancing  their  victorious  standard  to 
the  extremity  of  "Western  Africa.  Count  Julian  established 
his  seat  of  government  at  Ceuta,  the  frontier  bulwark  and 
one  of  the  far-famed  gates  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  Here 
he  boldly  faced  and  held  in  check  the  torrent  of  Moslem 
invasion. 

Don  Julian  was  a  man  of  an  active,  but  irregular  genius, 
and  a  grasping  ambition ;  he  had  a  love  for  power  and  grand- 
eur, in  which  he  was  joined  by  his  haughty  countess;  and 
they  could  ill  brook  the  downfall  of  their  house  as  threatened 
by  the  fate  of  Witiza.  They  had  hastened,  therefore,  to 
pay  their  court  to  the  newly  elevated  monarch,  and  to  assure 
him  of  their  fidelity  to  his  interests. 

Roderick  was  readily  persuaded  of  the  sincerity  of  Count 
Julian ;  he  was  aware  of  his  merits  as  a  soldier  and  a  gov- 
ernor, and  continued  him  in  his  important  command :  honor- 
ing him  with  many  other  marks  of  implicit  confidence.  Count 
Julian  sought  to  confirm  this  confidence  by  every  proof  of 
devotion.  It  was  a  custom  among  the  Goths  to  rear  many 
of  the  children  of  the  most  illustrious  families  in  the  royal 
household.  They  served  as  pages  to  the  king,  and  hand- 
maids and  ladies  of  honor  to  the  queen,  and  were  instructed 
in  all  manner  of  accomplishments  befitting  their  gentle  blood. 
"When  about  to  depart  for  Ceuta,  to  resume  his  command, 
Don  Julian  brought  his  daughter  Florinda  to  present  her  to 
the  sovereigns.  She  was  a  beautiful  virgin  that  had  not  as 
yet  attained  to  womanhood.  "I  confide  her  to  your  protec- 
tion," said  he  to  the  king,  "to  be  unto  her  as  a  father;  and 
to  have  her  trained  in  the  paths  of  virtue.  I  can  leave  with 
you  no  dearer  pledge  of  my  loyalty." 


the  Gothic  Kings.  Comes  Spathariorum,  custodum  corporis  Regis 
Profectus.  Hunc  et  Propospatharium  appellatum  existimo.— Patr. 
Pant,  de  Offic.  Goth. 


Ce<$ei7ds  of  the  Sopquest  of  Spaii?  419 

King  Roderick  received  the  timid  and  blushing  maiden 
into  his  paternal  care ;  promising  to  watch  over  her  happiness 
with  a  parent's  eye,  and  that  she  should  be  enrolled  among 
the  most  cherished  attendants  of  the  queen.  With  this  assur- 
ance of  the  welfare  of  his  child,  Count  Julian  departed,  well 
pleased,  for  his  government  at  Ceuta. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE    STORY    OP    FLORINDA 

THE  beautiful  daughter  of  Count  Julian  was  received  with 
great  favor  by  the  Queen  Exilona  and  admitted  among  the 
noble  damsels  that  attended  upon  her  person.  Here  she  lived 
in  honor  and  apparent  security,  and  surrounded  by  innocent 
delights.  To  gratify  his  queen,  Don  Roderick  had  built  for 
her  rural  recreation  a  palace  without  the  walls  of  Toledo,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Tagus.  It  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  garden, 
adorned  after  the  luxurious  style  of  the  East.  The  air  was 
perfumed  by  fragrant  shrubs  and  flowers;  the  groves  re- 
sounded with  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  while  the  gush  of 
fountains  and  waterfalls,  and  the  distant  murmur  of  the 
Tagus,  made  it  a  delightful  retreat  during  the  sultry  days  of 
summer.  The  charm  of  perfect  privacy  also  reigned  through- 
out the  place,  for  the  garden  walls  were  high,  and  numerous 
guards  kept  watch  without  to  protect  it  from  all  intrusion. 

In  this  delicious  abode,  more  befitting  an  Oriental  volupt- 
uary than  a  Gothic  king,  Don  Roderick  was  accustomed  to 
while  away  much  of  that  time  which  should  have  been  de- 
voted to  the  toilsome  cares  of  government.  The  very  security 
and  peace  which  he  had  produced  throughout  his  dominions 
by  his  precautions  to  abolish  the  means  and  habitudes  of  war, 
had  effected  a  disastrous  change  in  his  character.  The  hardy 
and  heroic  qualities  which  had  conducted  him  to  the  throne 
were  softened  in  the  lap  of  indulgence.  Surrounded  by  the 
pleasures  of  an  idle  and  effeminate  court,  and  beguiled  by 


420  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi? 

the  example  of  his  degenerate  nobles,  he  gave  way  to  a  fatal 
sensuality  that  had  lain  dormant  in  his  nature  during  the 
virtuous  days  of  his  adversity.  The  mere  love  of  female 
beauty  had  first  enamored  him  of  Exilona,  and  the  same 
passion,  fostered  by  voluptuous  idleness,  now  betrayed  him 
into  the  commission  of  an  act  fatal  to  himself  and  Spain.  The 
.following  is  the  story  of  his  error  as  gathered  from  an  old 
chronicle  and  legend. 

In  a  remote  part  of  the  palace  was  an  apartment  devoted 
to  the  queen.  It  was  like  an  eastern  harem,  shut  up  from 
the  foot  of  man,  and  where  the  king  himself  but  rarely  en- 
tered. It  had  its  own  courts  and  gardens  and  fountains, 
where  the  queen  was  wont  to  recreate  herself  with  her  dam- 
sels, as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  do  in  the  jealous  privacy 
of  her  father's  palace. 

One  sultry  day,  the  king,  instead  of  taking  his  siesta,  or 
mid-day  slumber,  repaired  to  this  apartment  to  seek  the  so- 
ciety of  the  queen.  In  passing  through  a  small  oratory,  he 
was  drawn  by  the  sound  of  female  voices  to  a  casement  over- 
hung with  myrtles  and  jessamines.  It  looked  into  an  interior 
garden  or  court,  set  out  with  orange-trees,  in  the  midst  of 
which  was  a  marble  fountain,  surrounded  by  a  grassy  bank, 
enameled  with  flowers. 

It  was  the  high  noontide  of  a  summer  day,  when,  in 
sultry  Spain,  the  landscape  trembles  to  the  eye,  and  all 
nature  seeks  repose,  except  the  grasshopper,  that  pipes  his 
lulling  note  to  the  herdsman  as  he  sleeps  beneath  the  shade. 

Around  the  fountain  were  several  of  the  damsels  of  the 
queen,  who,  confident  of  the  sacred  privacy  of  the  place, 
were  yielding  in  that  cool  retreat  to  the  indulgence  prompted 
by  the  season  and  the  hour.  Some  lay  asleep  on  the  flowery 
bank ;  others  sat  on  the  margin  of  the  fountain,  talking  and 
laughing,  as  they  bathed  their  feet  in  its  limpid  waters,  and 
King  Roderick  beheld  delicate  limbs  shining  through  the 
wave  that  might  rival  the  marble  in  whiteness. 

Among  the  damsels  was  one  who  had  come  from  the 
Barbary  coast  with  the  queen.  Her  complexion  had  the  dark 


of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spaii?       .  421 

tinge  of  Mauritania,  but  it  was  clear  and  transparent,  and 
the  deep  rich  rose  blushed  through  the  lovely  brown.  Her 
eyes  were  black  and  full  of  fire,  and  flashed  from  under  long 
silken  eyelashes. 

A  sportive  contest  arose  among  the  maidens  as  to  the 
comparative  beauty  of  the  Spanish  and  Moorish  forms;  but 
the  Mauritanian  damsel  revealed  limbs  of  voluptuous  sym- 
metry that  seemed  to  defy  all  rivalry. 

The  Spanish  beauties  were  on  the  point  of  giving  up  the 
contest,  when  they  bethought  themselves  of  the  young  Flo- 
rinda,  the  daughter  of  Count  Julian,  who  lay  on  the  grassy 
bank,  abandoned  to  a  summer  slumber.  The  soft  glow  of 
youth  and  health  mantled  on  her  cheek;  her  fringed  eyelashes 
scarcely  covered  their  sleeping  orbs ;  her  moist  and  ruby  lips 
were  lightly  parted,  just  revealing  a  gleam  of  her  ivory  teeth* 
while  her  innocent  bosom  rose  and  fell  beneath  her  bodice, 
like  the  gentle  swelling  and  sinking  of  a  tranquil  sea.  There 
was  a  breathing  tenderness  and  beauty  in  the  sleeping  virgin 
that  seemed  to  send  forth  sweetness  like  the  flowers  around 
her. 

"Behold,"  cried  her  companions  exultingly,  "the  cham- 
pion of  Spanish  beauty!" 

In  their  playful  eagerness  they  hah*  disrobed  the  innocent 
Florinda  before  she  was  aware.  She  awoke  in  time,  how- 
ever, to  escape  from  their  busy  hands;  but  enough  of  hep 
charms  had  been  revealed  to  convince  the  monarch  that 
they  were  not  to  be  rivaled  -by  the  rarest  beauties  of  Mauri* 
tania. 

From  this  day  the  heart  of  Roderick  was  inflamed  with 
a  fatal  passion.  He  gazed  on  the  beautiful  Florinda  with 
fervid  desire,  and  sought  to  read  in  her  looks  whether  there 
was  levity  or  wantonness  in  her  bosom;  but  the  eye  of  the 
damsel  ever  sunk  beneath  his  gaze,  and  remained  bent  on 
the  earth  in  virgin  modesty,. 

It  was  in  vain  he  called  to  mind  the  sacred  trust  reposed 
in  him  by  Count  Julian,  and  the  promise  he  had  given  to 
watch  over  his  daughter  with  paternal  care;  his  heart  was 


422  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$tOQ  Iruii?9 

vitiated  by  sensual  indulgence,  and  the  consciousness  of 
power  had  rendered  him  selfish  in  his  gratifications. 

Being  one  evening  in  the  garden  where  the  queen  was 
diverting  herself  with  her  damsels,  and  coming  to  the  foun- 
tain where  he  had  beheld  the  innocent  maidens  at  their  sport, 
he  could  no  longer  restrain  the  passion  that  raged  within  his 
breast.  Seating  himself  beside  the  fountain,  he  called  Flo- 
rinda  to  him  to  draw  forth  a  thorn  which  had  pierced  his 
hand.  The  maiden  knelt  at  his  feet,  to  examine  his  hand, 
and  the  touch  of  her  slender  fingers  thrilled  through  his 
veins.  As  she  knelt,  too,  her  amber  locks  fell  in  rich  ringlets 
about  her  beautiful  head,  her  innocent  bosom  palpitated  be- 
neath the  crimson  bodice,  and  her  timid  blushes  increased  the 
effulgence  of  her  charms. 

Having  examined  the  monarch's  hand  in  vain,  she  looked 
up  in  his  face  with  artless  perplexity. 

"Senior,"  said  she,  "I  can  find  no  thorn  nor  any  sign  of 
wound. ' ' 

Don  Roderick  grasped  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
heart.  "It  is  here,  lovely  Florinda!"  said  he.  "It  is  here! 
and  thou  alone  canst  pluck  it  forth!" 

"My  lord !"  exclaimed  the  blushing  and  astonished  maiden. 

"Florinda!"  said  Don  Roderick,  "dost  thou  love  me?" 

"Senior,"  said  she,  "my  father  taught  me  to  love  and 
reverence  you.  He  confided  me  to  your  care  as  one  who 
would  be  as  a  parent  to  me,  when  he  should  be  far  distant, 
serving  your  majesty  with  life  and  loyalty.  May  God  incline 
your  majesty  ever  to  protect  me  as  a  father."  So  saying, 
the  maiden  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  ground,  and  continued 
kneeling :  but  her  countenance  had  become  deadly  pale,  and 
as  she  knelt  she  trembled. 

"Florinda,"  said  the  king,  "either  thou  dost  not,  or  thou 
wilt  not  understand  me.  I  would  have  thee  love  me,  not  as 
a  father,  nor  as  a  monarch,  but  as  one  who  adores  thee. 
"Why  dost  thou  start?  No  one  shall  know  our  loves;  and, 
moreover,  the  love  of  a  monarch  inflicts  no  degradation  like 
the  love  of  a  common  man— riches  and  honors  attend  upon 


of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spalp  423 

it.  I  will  advance  thee  to  rank  and  dignity,  and  place  thee 
above  the  proudest  females  of  my  court.  Thy  father,  too, 
shall  be  more  exalted  and  endowed  than  any  noble  in  my 
realm." 

The  soft  eye  of  Florinda  kindled  at  these  words.  ' '  Senior, ' ' 
said  she,  "the  line  I  spring  from  can  receive  no  dignity  by 
means  so  vile;  and  my  father  would  rather  die  than  purchase 
rank  and  power  by  the  dishonor  of  his  child.  But  1  see," 
continued  she,  "that  your  majesty  speaks  in  this  manner  only 
to  try  me.  You  may  have  thought  me  light  and  simple  and 
unworthy  to  attend  upon  the  queen.  I  pray  your  majesty  to 
pardon  me,  that  I  have  taken  your  pleasantry  in  such  serious 
part." 

In  thfa  way  the  agitated  maiden  sought  to  evade  the  ad- 
dresses of  the  monarch,  but  still  her  cheek  was  blanched  and 
her  lip  quivered  as  she  spoke. 

The  king  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips  with  fervor.  "May 
ruin  seize  me,"  cried  he,  "if  I  speak  to  prove  thee.  My 
heart,  my  kingdom,  are  at  thy  command.  Only  be  mine, 
and  thou  shalt  rule  absolute  mistress  of  myself  and  my 
domains." 

The  damsel  rose  from  the  earth  where  she  had  hitherto 
knelt,  and  her  whole  countenance  glowed  with  virtuous  indig- 
nation. "My  lord,"  said  she,  "I  am  your  subject,  and  in 
your  power;  take  my  life  if  it  be  your  pleasure,  but  nothing 
shall  tempt  me  to  commit  a  crime  which  would  be  treason  to 
the  queen,  disgrace  to  my  father,  agony  to  my  mother,  and 
perdition  to  myself."  With  these  words  she  left  the  garden, 
and  the  king,  for  the  moment,  was  too  much  awed  by  her 
indignant  virtue  to  oppose  her  departure. 

We  shall  pass  briefly  over  the  succeeding  events  of  the 
story  of  Florinda,  about  which  so  much  has  been  said  and 
sung  by  chronicle?  and  bard :  for  the  sober  page  of  history 
should  be  carefully  chastened  from  all  scenes  that  might 
inflame  a  wanton  imagination,  leaving  them  to  poems  and 
romances,  and  such  like  highly  seasoned  works  of  fantasy 
and  recreation. 


424  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$toi)  Iruir?$ 

Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  Don  Roderick  pursued  his  suit 
to  the  beautiful  Florinda,  his  passion  being  more  and  more 
inflamed  by  the  resistance  of  the  virtuous  damsel.  At  length, 
forgetting  what  was  due  to  helpless  beauty,  to  his  own  honor 
as  a  knight,  and  his  word  as  a  sovereign,  he  triumphed  over 
her  weakness  by  base  and  unmanly  violence. 

There  are  not  wanting  those  who  affirm  that  the  hapless 
Florinda  lent  a  yielding  ear  to  the  solicitations  of  the  mon- 
arch, and  her  name  has  been  treated  with  opprobrium  in  sev- 
eral of  the  ancient  chronicles  and  legendary  ballads  that  have 
transmitted,  from  generation  to  generation,  the  story  of  the 
woes  of  Spain.  In  very  truth,  however,  she  appears  to  have 
been  a  guiltless  victim,  resisting,  as  far  as  helpless  female 
could  resist,  the  arts  and  intrigues  of  a  powerful  monarch, 
who  had  naught  to  check  the  indulgence  of  his  will,  and 
bewailing  her  disgrace  with  a  poignancy  that  shows  how 
dearly  she  had  prized  her  honor. 

In  the  first  paroxysm  of  her  grief  she  wrote  a  letter  to  her 
father,  blotted  with  her  tears  and  almost  incoherent  from  her 
agitation.  "Would  to  God,  my  father,"  said  she,  "that  the 
earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  me  ere  I  had  been  reduced 
to  write  these  lines.  I  blush  to  tell  thee  what  it  is  not  proper 
to  conceal.  Alas,  my  father!  thou  hast  intrusted  thy  lamb 
to  the  guardianship  of  the  lion.  Thy  daughter  has  been  dis- 
honored, the  royal  cradle  of  the  Goths  polluted,  and  our  line- 
age insulted  and  disgraced.  Hasten,  my  father,  to  rescue 
your  child  from  the  power  of  the  spoiler,  and  to  vindicate  the 
honor  of  your  house." 

When  Florinda  had  written  these  lines,  she  summoned 
a  youthful  esquire,  who  had  been  a  page  in  the  service  of  her 
father.  ' '  Saddle  thy  steed, ' '  said  she,  *  *  and  if  thou  dost  aspire 
to  knightly  honor,  or  hope  for  lady's  grace ;  if  thou  hast  fealty 
for  thy  lord,  or  devotion  to  his  daughter,  speed  swiftly  upon 
my  errand.  Rest  not,  halt  not,  spare  not  the  spur,  but  hie 
thee  day  and  night  until  thou  reach  the  sea ;  take  the  first 
bark,  and  haste  with  sail  and  oar  to  Ceuta,  nor  pause  until 
thou  give  this  letter  to  the  count  my  father."  The  youth 


Ce<Jei>ds  of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spaii?  425 

put  the  letter  in  his  bosom.  "Trust  me,  lady,"  said  he,  "I 
will  neither  halt,  nor  turn  aside,  nor  cast  a  look  behind,  until 
I  reach  Count  Julian."  He  mounted  his  fleet  steed,  sped  his 
way  across  the  bridge,  and  soon  left  behind  him  the  verdant 
valley  of  the  Tagus. 


CHAPTER   SIX 

DON    RODERICK  RECEIVES   AN    EXTRAORDINARY    EMBASSY 

THE  heart  of  Don  Roderick  was  not  so  depraved  by  sen- 
suality but  that  the  wrong  he  had  been  guilty  of  toward  the 
innocent  Florinda,  and  the  disgrace  he  had  inflicted  on  her 
house,  weighed  heavy  on  his  spirits,  and  a  cloud  began  to 
gather  on  his  once  clear  and  un wrinkled  brow. 

Heaven,  at  this  time,  say  the  old  Spanish  chronicles, 
permitted  a  marvelous  intimation  of  the  wrath  with  which 
it  intended  to  visit  the  monarch  and  his  people,  in  punish- 
ment of  their  sins ;  nor  are  we,  say  the  same  orthodox  writers, 
to  startle  and  withhold  our  faith  when  we  meet  in  the  page 
of  discreet  and  sober  history  with  these  signs  and  portents, 
which  transcend  the  probabilities  of  ordinary  life;  for  the 
revolutions  of  empires  and  the  downfall  of  mighty  kings  are 
awful  events  that  shake  the  physical  as  well  as  the  moral 
world,  and  are  often  announced  by  forerunning  marvels  and 
prodigious  omens. 

With  such  like  cautious  preliminaries  do  the  wary  but 
credulous  historiographers  of  yore  usher  in  a  marvelous  event 
of  prophecy  and  enchantment,  linked  in  ancient  story  with 
the  fortunes  of  Don  Roderick,  but  which  modern  doubters 
would  fain  hold  up  as  an  apocryphal  tradition  of  Arabian  origin. 

Now,  so  it  happened,  according  to  the  legend,  that  about 
this  time,  as  King  Roderick  was  seated  one  day  on  his  throne, 
surrounded  by  his  nobles,  in  the  ancient  city  of  Toledo,  two 
men  of  venerable  appearance  entered  the  hall  of  audience. 
Their  snowy  beards  descended  to  their  breasts,  and  their 
gray  hairs  were  bound  with  ivy.  They  were  arrayed  in 


426  U/orks  of  \l/asl?ir><$tor)  Irvlr>$ 

white  garments  of  foreign  or  antiquated  fashion,  which  swept 
the  ground,  and  were  cinctured  with  girdles,  wrought  with 
the  signs  of  the  zodiac,  from  which  were  suspended  enormous 
bunches  of  keys  of  every  variety  of  form.  Having  approached 
the  throne  and  made  obeisance :  ' '  Know,  O  king, ' '  said  one 
of  the  old  men,  "that  in  days  of  yore,  when  Hercules  of 
Lybia,  surnamed  the  strong,  had  set  up  his  pillars  at  the 
ocean  strait,  he  erected  a  tower  near  to  this  ancient  city  of 
Toledo.  He  built  it  of  prodigious  strength,  and  finished  it 
with  magic  art,  shutting  up  within  it  a  fearful  secret,  never 
to  be  penetrated  without  peril  and  disaster.  To  protect  this 
terribly  mystery  he  closed  the  entrance  to  the  edifice  with  a 
ponderous  door  of  iron,  secured  by  a  great  lock  of  steel,  and 
he  left  a  command  that  every  king  who  should  succeed  him 
should  add  another  lock  to  the  portal ;  denouncing  woe  and 
destruction  on  him  who  should  eventually  unfold  the  secret 
of  the  tower. 

"The  guardianship  of  the  portal  was  given  to  our  ances- 
tors, and  has  continued  in  our  family,  from  generation  to 
generation,  since  the  days  of  Hercules.  Several  kings,  from 
time  to  time,  have  caused  the  gate  to  be  thrown  open,  and 
have  attempted  to  enter,  but  have  paid  dearly  for  their 
temerity.  Some  have  perished  within  the  threshold,  others 
have  been  overwhelmed  with  horror  at  tremendous  sounds, 
which  shook  the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  have  hastened 
to  reclose  the  door  and  secure  it  with  its  thousand  locks. 
Thus,  since  the  days  of  Hercules,  the  inmost  recesses  of  the 
pile  have  never  been  penetrated  by  mortal  man,  and  a  pro- 
found mystery  continues  to  prevail  over  this  great  enchant- 
ment. This,  O  king,  is  all  we  have  to  relate;  and  our 
errand  is  to  entreat  thee  to  repair  to  the  tower  and  affix  thy 
lock  to  the  portal,  as  has  been  done  by  all  thy  predecessors." 
Having  thus  said,  the  ancient  men  made  a  profound  rever- 
ence and  departed  from  the  presence  chamber.* 

*  Perdida  de  Espafia  por  Abulcasim  Tarif  Abentarique,  1.  1,  c.  6. 
Cronica  del  Rey  Don  Rodrigo  por  el  moro  Rasis,  1.  1,  c.  1.  Bleda  Cron. 
cap.  vii. 


Ce^erjds  of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spaip  427 

Don  Roderick  remained  for  some  time  lost  in  thought 
after  the  departure  of  the  men;  he  then  dismissed  all  his 
court  excepting  the  venerable  Urbino,  at  that  tune  arch- 
bishop of  Toledo.  The  long  white  beard  of  this  prelate  be- 
spoke his  advanced  age,  and  his  overhanging  eyebrows 
showed  him  a  man  full  of  wary  counsel. 

"Father,"  said  the  king,  "I  have  an  earnest  desire  to 
penetrate  the  mystery  of  this  tower."  The  worthy  prelate 
shook  his  hoary  head,  "Beware,  my  son,"  said  he,  "there 
are  secrets  hidden  from  man  for  his  good.  Your  predeces- 
sors for  many  generations  have  respected  this  mystery,  and 
have  increased  in  might  and  empire.  A  knowledge  of  it, 
therefore,  is  not  material  to  the  welfare  of  your  kingdom. 
Seek  not  then  to  indulge  a  rash  and  unprofitable  curiosity 
which  is  interdicted  under  such  awful  menaces." 

"Of  what  importance,"  cried  the  king,  "are  the  menaces 
of  Hercules,  the  Lybian?  was  he  not  a  pagan;  and  can  his 
enchantments  have  aught  avail  against  a  believer  in  our 
holy  faith?  -Doubtless  in  this  tower  are  locked  up  treasures 
of  gold  and  jewels,  amassed  hi  days  of  old,  the  spoils  of 
mighty  kings,  the  riches  of  the  pagan  world.  My  coffers  are 
exhausted ;  I  have  need  of  supply ;  and  surely  it  would  be  an 
acceptable  act  in  the  eyes  of  heaven  to  draw  forth  this  wealth 
which  lies  buried  under  profane  and  necromantic  spells,  and 
consecrate  it  to  religious  purposes." 

The  venerable  archbishop  still  continued  to  remonstrate, 
but  Don  Roderick  heeded  not  his  counsel,  for  he  was  led  on 
by  his  malignant  star.  "Father,"  said  he,  "it  is  in  vain  you 
attempt  to  dissuade  me.  My  resolution  is  fixed.  To-morrow 
I  will  explore  the  hidden  mystery,  or,  rather,  the  hidden 
treasures  of  this  tower." 


428  U/orKs  of 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

STORY    OF    THE    MARVELOUS    AND    PORTENTOUS    TOWER 

THE  morning  sun  shone  brightly  upon  the  cliff-built 
towers  of  Toledo,  when  King  Roderick  issued  out  of  the 
gate  of  the  city  at  the  head  of  a  numerous  train  of  courtiers 
and  cavaliers,  and  crossed  the  bridge  that  bestrides  the  deep 
rocky  bed  of  the  Tagus.  The  shining  cavalcade  wound  up 
the  road  that  leads  among  the  mountains,  and  soon  came  in 
sight  of  the  necromantic  tower. 

Of  this  renowned  edifice  marvels  are  related  by  the  an- 
cient Arabian  and  Spanish  chroniclers,  "and  I  doubt  much," 
adds  the  venerable  Agapida,  "whether  many  readers  will  not 
consider  the  whole  as  a  cunningly  devised  fable,  sprung  from 
an  oriental  imagination  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to  reject  a  fact 
which  is  recorded  by  all  those  writers  who  are  the  fathers  of 
our  national  history  ;  a  fact,  too,  which  is  as  well  attested  as 
most  of  the  remarkable  events  in  the  story  of  Don  Roderick. 
None  but  light  and  inconsiderate  minds,"  continues  the  good 
friar,  "do  hastily  reject  the  marvelous.  To  the  thinking 
mind  the  whole  world  is  enveloped  in  mystery,  and  every- 
thing is  full  of  type  and  portent.  To  such  a  mind  the  necro- 
mantic tower  of  Toledo  will  appear  as  one  of  those  wondrous 
monuments  of  the  olden  time  ;  one  of  those  Egyptian  and 
Chaldaic  piles,  storied  with  hidden  wisdom  and  mystic  proph- 
ecy, which  have  been  devised  in  past  ages,  when  man  yet 
enjoyed  an  intercourse  with  high  and  spiritual  natures,  and 
when  human  foresight  partook  of  divination." 

This  singular  tower  was  round  and  of  great  height  and 
grandeur,  erected  upon  a  lofty  rock,  and  surrounded  by  crags 
and  precipices.  The  foundation  was  supported  by  four  brazen 
lions,  each  taller  than  a  cavalier  on  horseback.  The  walls 
were  built  of  small  pieces  of  jasper  and  various  colored  mar- 
bles, not  larger  than  a  man's  hand  ;  so  subtilely  joined,  how- 


Ceo~er>d8  of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spaii>  429 

ever,  that,  but  for  their  different  hues,  they  might  be  taken 
for  one  entire  stone.  They  were  arranged  with  marvelous 
cunning  so  as  to  represent  battles  and  warlike  deeds  of  times 
and  heroes  long  since  passed  away,  and  the  whole  surface 
was  so  admirably  polished  that  the  stones  were  as  lustrous  as 
glass,  and  reflected  the  rays  of  the  sun  with  such  resplendent 
brightness  as  to  dazzle  all  beholders.* 

King  Roderick  and  his  courtiers  arrived  wondering  and 
amazed  at  the  foot  of  the  rock.  Here  there  was  a  narrow 
arched  way  cut  through  the  living  stone :  the  only  entrance 
to  the  tower.  It  was  closed  by  a  massive  iron  gate  covered 
with  rusty  locks  of  divers  workmanship  and  in  the  fashion 
of  different  centuries,  which  had  been  affixed  by  the  pre- 
decessors of  Don  Roderick.  On  either  side  of  the  portal  stood 
the  two  ancient  guardians  of  the  tower,  laden  with  the  keys 
appertaining  to  the  locks. 

The  king  alighted,  and  approaching  the  portals,  ordered 
the  guardians  to  unlock  the  gate.  The  hoary  headed  men 
drew  back  with  terror.  "Alas!"  cried  they,  "what  is  it 
your  majesty  requires  of  us.  Would  you  have  the  mis- 
chiefs of  this  tower  unbound,  and  let  loose  to  shake  the 
earth  to  its  foundations?" 

The  venerable  archbishop  Urbino  likewise  implored  him 
not  to  disturb  a  mystery  which  had  been  held  sacred  from 
generation  to  generation  within  the  memory  of  man,  and 
which  even  Caesar  himself,  when  sovereign  of  Spain,  had 
not  ventured  to  invade.  The  youthful  cavaliers,  however, 
were  eager  to  pursue  the  adventure,  and  encouraged  him  in 
his  rash  curiosity. 

"Come  what  come  may,"  exclaimed  Don  Roderick,  "I 
am  resolved  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  this  tower."  So 
saying,  he  again  commanded  the  guardians  to  unlock  the 
portal.  The  ancient  men  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling, 
but  their  hands  shook  with  age,  and  when  they  applied  the 

*  From  the  minute  account  of  the  good  friar,  drawn  from  the 
ancient  chronicles,  it  would  appear  that  the  walls  of  the  tower  were 
pictured  in  mosaic  work. 


430  U/orKs  of  U/asl?iQ<Jtor)  Iruii?<J 

keys  the  locks  were  so  rusted  by  time,  or  of  such  strange 
workmanship,  that  they  resisted  their  feeble  efforts,  where- 
upon the  young  cavaliers  pressed  forward  and  lent  their  aid. 
Still  the  locks  were  so  numerous  and  difficult  that  with  all 
their  eagerness  and  strength  a  great  part  of  the  day  was 
exhausted  before  the  whole  of  them  could  be  mastered. 

When  the  last  bolt  had  yielded  to  the  key,  the  guardians 
and  the  reverend  archbishop  again  entreated  the  king  to 
pause  and  reflect.  "Whatever  is  within  this  tower,"  said 
they,  "is  as  yet  harmless  and  lies  bound  under  a  mighty 
spell :  venture  not  then  to  open  a  door  which  may  let  forth 
a  flood  of  evil  upon  the  land."  But  the  anger  of  the  king 
was  roused,  and  he  ordered  that  the  portal  should  be  in- 
stantly thrown  open.  In  vain,  however,  did  one  after  an- 
other exert  his  strength,  and  equally  in  vain  did  the  cavaliers 
unite  their  forces,  and  apply  their  shoulders  to  the  gate ; 
though  there  was  neither  bar  nor  bolt  remaining  it  was  per- 
fectly immovable. 

The  patience  of  the  king  was  now  exhausted,  and  he  ad- 
vanced to  apply  his  hand;  scarcely,  however,  did  he  touch 
the  iron  gate,  when  it  swung  slowly  open,  uttering,  as  it 
were,  a  dismal  groan,  as  it  turned  reluctantly  upon  its  hinges. 
A  cold,  damp  wind  issued  forth,  accompanied  by  a  tempestu- 
ous sound.  The  hearts  of  the  ancient  guardians  quaked 
within  them,  and  their  knees  smote  together;  but  several  of 
the  youthful  cavaliers  rushed  in,  eager  to  gratify  their  curi- 
osity, or  to  signalize  themselves  in  this  redoubtable  enter- 
prise. They  had  scarcely  advanced  a  few  paces,  however, 
when  they  recoiled,  overcome  by  the  baleful  air,  or  by  some 
fearful  vision.*  Upon  this,  the  king  ordered  that  fires  should 
be  kindled  to  dispel  the  darkness,  and  to  correct  the  noxious 
and  long  imprisoned  air;  he  then  led  the  way  into  the  inte- 
rior; but,  though  stout  of  heart,  he  advanced  with  awe  and 
hesitation^ 

After  proceeding  a  short  distance,  he  entered  a  hall,  or 

*  Bleda.  Cronica,  cap.  7. 


of  ttye  Qopquest  of  Spai'o  431 

ante-chamber,  on  the  opposite  side  of  which  was  a  door,  and' 
before  it,  on  a  pedestal,  stood  a  gigantic  figure,  of  the  color 
of  bronze,  and  of  a  terrible  aspect.  It  held  a  huge  mace, 
which  it  whirled  incessantly,  giving  such  cruel  and  resound- 
ing blows  upon  the  earth  as  to  prevent  all  further  entrance. 

The  king  paused  at  sight  of  this  appalling  figure,  for 
whether  it  were  a  living  being,  or  a  statue  of  magic  artifice, 
he  could  not  tell.  On  its  breast  was  a  scroll,  whereon  was 
inscribed  in  large  letters,  "I  do  my  duty."*  After  a  little 
while  Roderick  plucked  up  heart  and  addressed  it  with  great 
solemnity:  "Whatever  thou  be,"  said  he,  "know  that  I 
come  not  to  violate  this  sanctuary,  but  to  inquire  into  the 
mystery  it  contains ;  I  conjure  thee,  therefore,  to  let  me  pass 
in  safety." 

Upon  this  the  figure  paused  with  uplifted  mace,  and  the 
king  and  his  train  passed  unmolested  through  the  door. 

They  now  entered  a  vast  chamber,  of  a  rare  and  sumptuous 
architecture,  difficult  to  be  described.  The  walls  were  in- 
crusted  with  the  most  precious  gems,  so  joined  together  as  to 
form  one  smooth  and  perfect  surface.  The  lofty  dome  ap- 
peared to  be  self-supported,  and  was  studded  with  gems  lus- 
trous as  the  stars  of  the  firmament.  There  was  neither  wood, 
nor  any  other  common  or  base  material  to  be  seen  throughout 
the  edifice.  There  were  no  windows  or  other  openings  to 
admit  the  day,  yet  a  radiant  light  was  spread  throughout  the 
place,  which  seemed  to  shine  from  the  walls,  and  to  render 
every  object  distinctly  visible. 

In  the  center  of  this  hall  stood  a  table  of  alabaster  of  the 
rarest  workmanship,  on  which  was  inscribed  in  Greek  char- 
acters, that  Hercules  Alcides,  the  Theban  Greek,  had  founded 
this  tower  in  the  year  of  the  world  three  thousand  and  six. 
Upon  the  table  stood  a  golden  casket,  richly  set  round  with 
precious  stones,  and  closed  with  a  lock  of  mother-of-pearl, 
and  on  the  lid  were  inscribed  the  following  words : 

"In  this  coffer  is  contained  the  mystery  of  the  tower. 

*  Bleda.  Cronica,  cap.  7. 


432  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii)<Jtoo 

The  hand  of  none  but  a  king  can  open  it ;  but  let  him  beware ! 
for  marvelous  events  will  be  revealed  to  him,  which  are  to 
take  place  before  his  death." 

King  Roderick  boldly  seized  upon  the  casket.  The  vener- 
able archbishop  laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  made  a  last 
remonstrance.  "Forbear,  my  son!"  said  he,  "desist  while 
there  is  yet  time.  Look  not  into  the  mysterious  decrees  of 
Providence.  God  has  hidden  them  in  mercy  from  our  sight, 
and  it  is  impious  to  rend  the  veil  by  which  they  are  con- 
cealed." 

"What  have  I  to  dread  from  a  knowledge  of  the  future?" 
replied  Roderick,  with  an  air  of  haughty  presumption.  "If 
good  be  destined  me,  I  shall  enjoy  it  by  anticipation :  if  evil, 
I  shall  arm  myself  to  meet  it."  So  saying  he  rashly  broke 
the  lock. 

Within  the  coffer  he  found  nothing  but  a  linen  cloth,  folded 
between  two  tablets  of  copper.  On  unfolding  it  he  beheld 
painted  on  it  figures  of  men  on  horseback,  of  fierce  demeanor, 
clad  in  turbans  and  robes  of  various  colors,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  Arabs,  with  scimiters  hanging  from  their  necks  and 
crossbows  at  their  saddle  backs,  and  they  carried  banners  and 
pennons  with  divers  devices.  Above  them  was  inscribed  in 
Greek  characters,  "Rash  monarch!  behold  the  men  who  are 
to  hurl  thee  from  thy  throne  and  subdue  thy  kingdom!" 

At  sight  of  these  things  the  king  was  troubled  in  spirit, 
and  dismay  fell  upon  his  attendants.  While  they  were  yet 
regarding  the  paintings,  it  seemed  as  if  the  figures  began  to 
move,  and  a  faint  sound  of  warlike  tumult  arose  from  the 
cloth,  with  the  clash  of  cymbal  and  bray  of  trumpet,  the 
neigh  of  steed  and  shout  of  army ;  but  all  was  heard  indis- 
tinctly, as  if  afar  off,  or  in  a  reverie  or  dream.  The  more 
they  gazed,  the  plainer  became  the  motion  and  the  louder 
the  noise ;  and  the  linen  cloth  rolled  forth,  and  amplified,  and 
spread  out,  as  it  were,  a  mighty  banner,  and  filled  the  hall 
and  mingled  with  the  air,  until  its  texture  was  no  longer 
visible,  or  appeared  as  a  transparent  cloud.  And  the  shad- 
owy figures  became  all  in  motion,  and  the  din  and  uproar 


Ce^epds  of  tl?e  Sooquest  of  8pa!r>  433 

became  fiercer  and  fiercer;  and  whether  the  whole  were  an 
animated  picture,  or  a  vision,  or  an  array  of  embodied  spirits, 
conjured  up  by  supernatural  power,  no  one  present  could  tell. 
They  beheld  before  them  a  great  field  of  battle,  where  Chris- 
tians and  Moslems  were  engaged  in  deadly  conflict.  They 
heard  the  rush  and  tramp  of  steeds,  the  blast  of  trump  and 
clarion,  the  clash  of  cymbal,  and  the  stormy  din  of  a  thousand 
drums.  There  was  the  clash  of  swords,  and  maces,  and 
battle-axes,  with  the  whistling  of  arrows  and  the  hurtling  of 
darts  and  lances.  The  Christians  quailed  before  the  foe ;  the 
infidels  pressed  upon  them  and  put  them  to  utter  rout;  the 
standard  of  the  cross  was  cast  down,  the  banner  of  Spain  was 
trodden  under  foot,  the  air  resounded  with  shouts  of  triumph, 
with  yells  of  fury,  and  with  the  groans  of  dying  men. 
Amid  the  flying  squadrons  King  Roderick  beheld  a  crowned 
warrior,  whose  back  was  toward  him,  but  whose  armor  and 
device  were  his  own,  and  who  was  mounted  on  a  white  steed 
that  resembled  his  own  war-horse  Orelia.  In  the  confusion 
of  the  flight,  the  warrior  was  dismounted  and  was  no  longer 
to  be  seen,  and  Orelia  galloped  wildly  through  the  field  of 
battle  without  a  rider. 

Roderick  stayed  to  see  no  more,  but  rushed  from  the  fatal 
hall,  followed  by  his  terrified  attendants.  They  fled  through 
the  outer  chamber,  where  the  gigantic  figure  with  the  whirl- 
ing mace  had  disappeared  from  his  pedestal,  and  on  issuing 
into  the  open  air,  they  found  the  two  ancient  guardians  of 
the  tower  lying  dead  at  the  portal,  as  though  they  had  been 
crushed  by  some  mighty  blow.  All  nature,  which  had  been 
clear  and  serene,  was  now  in  wild  uproar.  The  heavens 
were  darkened  by  heavy  clouds ;  loud  bursts  of  thunder  rent 
the  air,  and  the  earth  was  deluged  with  rain  and  rattling  hail. 

The  king  ordered  that  the  iron  portal  should  be  closed,  but 
the  door  was  immovable,  and  the  cavaliers  were  dismayed  by 
the  tremendous  turmoil  and  the  mingled  shouts  and  groans 
that  continued  to  prevail  within.  The  king  and  his  train 
hastened  back  to  Toledo,  pursued  and  pelted  by  the  tempest. 
The  mountains  shook  and  echoed  with  the  thunder,  trees 
***19  VOL.  I. 


434  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi? 

were  uprooted  and  blown  down,  and  the  Tagus  raged  and 
roared  and  flowed  above  its  banks.  It  seemed  to  the  affrighted 
courtiers  as  if  the  phantom  legions  of  the  tower  had  issued 
forth  and  mingled  with  the  storm,  for  amid  the  claps  of 
thunder  and  the  howling  of  the  wind,  they  fancied  they  heard 
the  sound  of  the  drums  and  trumpets,  the  shouts  of  armies 
and  the  rush  of  steeds.  Thus  beaten  by  tempest  and  over- 
whelmed with  horror,  the  king  and  his  courtiers  arrived  at 
Toledo,  clattering  across  the  bridge  of  the  Tagus,  and  entering 
the  gate  in  headlong  confusion  as  though  they  had  been 
pursued  by  an  enemy. 

In  the  morning  the  heavens  were  again  serene,  and  all 
nature  was  restored  to  tranquillity.  The  king,  therefore, 
issued  forth  with  his  cavaliers,  and  took  the  road  to  the 
tower,  followed  by  a  great  multitude,  for  he  was  anxious 
once  more  to  close  the  iron  door  and  shut  up  those  evils  that 
threatened  to  overwhelm  the  land.  But  lo!  on  coming  in 
sight  of  the  tower,  a  new  wonder  met  their  eyes.  An  eagle 
appeared  high  in  the  air,  seeming  to  descend  from  heaven. 
He  bore  in  his  beak  a  burning  brand,  and  lighting  on  the 
summit  of  the  tower,  fanned  the  fire  with  his  wings.  In  a 
little  while  the  edifice  burst  forth  into  a  blaze  as  though  it 
had  been  built  of  rosin,  and  the  flames  mounted  into  the  air 
with  a  brilliancy  more  dazzling  than  the  sun ;  nor  did  they 
cease  until  every  stone  was  consumed  and  the  whole  was  re- 
duced to  a  heap  of  ashes.  Then  there  came  a  vast  flight  of 
birds,  small  of  size  and  sable  of  hue,  darkening  the  sky  like 
a  cloud;  and  they  descended  and  wheeled  in  circles  round 
the  ashes,  causing  so  great  a  wind  with  their  wings  that  the 
whole  was  borne  up  into  the  air,  and  scattered  throughout 
all  Spain,  and  wherever  a  particle  of  that  ashes  fell  it  was 
as  a  stain  of  blood.  It  is  furthermore  recorded  by  ancient 
men  and  writers  of  former  days,  that  all  those  on  whom  this 
dust  fell  were  afterward  slain  in  battle,  when  the  country 
was  conquered  by  the  Arabs,  and  that  the  destruction  of  this 
necromantic  tower  was  a  sign  and  token  of  the  approaching 
perdition  of  Spam. 


Ce<$er>ds  of  tfye  <?oi}quest  of  Spali?  435 

"Let  all  those,"  concludes  the  cautious  friar,  "who  ques- 
tion the  verity  of  this  most  marvelous  occurrence,  consult 
those  admirable  sources  of  our  history,  the  chronicle  of  the 
Moor,  Rasis,  and  the  work  entitled,  'The  Fall  of  Spain,'  writ- 
ten by  the  Moor,  Abulcasim  Tarif  Abentarique.  Let  them  con- 
sult, moreover,  the  venerable  historian  Bleda,  and  the  cloud 
of  other  Catholic  Spanish  writers  who  have  treated  of  this 
event,  and  they  will  find  I  have  related  nothing  that  has  not 
been  printed  and  published  under  the  inspection  and  sanction 
of  our  holy  mother  church.  God  alone  knoweth  the  truth  of 
these  things;  I  speak  nothing  but  what  has  been  handed 
down  to  me  from  times  of  old." 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

COUNT   JULIAN— HIS    FORTUNES    IN    AFRICA— HE   HEARS    OF 
THE  DISHONOR  OF  HIS  CHLLD— HIS  CONDUCT  THEREUPON 

THE  course  of  our  legendary  narration  now  returns  to 
notice  the  fortunes  of  Count  Julian,  after  his  departure  from 
Toledo,  to  resume  his  government  on  the  coast  of  Barbary. 
He  left  the  Countess  Frandina  at  Algeziras,  his  paternal 
domain,  for. the  province  under  his  command  w,as  threatened 
with  invasion.  In  fact,  when  he  arrived  at  Ceuta  he  found 
his  post  in  imminent  danger  from  the  all-conquering  Mos- 
lems. The  Arabs  of  the  East,  the  followers  of  Mahomet, 
having  subjugated  several  of  the  most  potent  Oriental  king- 
doms, had  established  their  seat  of  empire  at  Damascus, 
where,  at  this  tune,  it  was  filled  by  Waled  Almanzor,  sur- 
named  "The  Sword  of  God."  From  thence  the  tide  of  Mos- 
lem conquest  had  rolled  on  to  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic,  so 
that  all  Almagreb,  or  "Western  Africa,  had  submitted  to  the 
standard  of  the  prophet,  with  the  exception  of  a  portion  of 
Tingitania,  lying  along  the  straits ;  being  the  province  held 
by  the  Goths  of  Spain  and  commanded  by  Count  Julian. 
The  Arab  invaders  were  a  hundred  thousand  strong,  most  of 
them  veteran  troops,  seasoned  in  warfare  and  accustomed  to 


436  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ip<$toi) 

victory.  They  were  led  by  an  old  Arab  general,  Muza  ben 
Nosier,  to  whom  was  confided  the  government  of  Almagreb; 
most  of  which  he  had  himself  conquered.  The  ambition  of 
this  veteran  was  to  make  the  Moslem  conquest  complete,  by 
expelling  the  Christians  from  the  African  shores;  with  this 
view  his  troops  menaced  the  few  remaining  Gothic  fortresses 
of  Tingitania,  while  he  himself  sat  down  in  person  before  the 
walls  of  Ceuta.  The  Arab  chieftain  had  been  rendered  con- 
fident by  continual  success,  and  thought  nothing  could  resist 
his  arms  and  the  sacred«standard  of  the  Prophet.  Impatient 
of  the  tedious  delays  of  a  siege,,  he  led  his  troops  boldly 
against  the  rock-built  towers  of  Ceuta,  and  attempted  to  take 
the  place  by  storm.  The  onset  was  fierce,  and  the  struggle 
desperate;  the  swarthy  sons  of  the  desert  were  light  and 
vigorous,  and  of  fiery  spirit,  but  the  Goths,  inured  to  danger 
on  this  frontier,  retained  the  stubborn  valor  of  their  race,  so 
unpaired  among  their  brethren  in  Spain.  They  were  com- 
manded, too,  by  one  skilled  in  warfare  and  ambitious  of  re- 
nown. After  a  vehement  conflict  the  Moslem  assailants  were 
repulsed  from  all  points  and  driven  from  the  walls.  Don 
Julian  sallied  forth  and  harassed  them  in  their  retreat,  and 
so  severe  was  the  carnage  that  the  veteran  Muza  was  fain  to 
break  up  his  camp  and  retire  confounded  from  the  siege. 

The  victory  at  Ceuta  resounded  throughout  Tingitania  and 
spread  universal  joy.  On  every  side  were  heard  shouts  of 
exultation  mingled  with  praises  of  Count  Julian.  He  was 
hailed  by  the  people,  wherever  he  went,  as  their  deliverer, 
and  blessings  were  invoked  upon  his  head.  The  heart  of 
Count  Julian  was  lifted  up,  and  his  spirit  swelled  within 
him ;  but  it  was  with  noble  and  virtuous  pride,  for  he  was 
conscious  of  having  merited  the  blessings  of  his  country. 

In  the  midst  of  his  exultation,  and  while  the  rejoicings  of 
the  people  were  yet  sounding  in  his  ears,  the  page  arrived 
who  bore  the  letter  from  his  unfortunate  daughter. 

"What  tidings  from  the  king?"  said  the  count,  as  the  pag^ 
knelt  before  him.  "None,  my  lord,"  replied  the  youth,  "but 
I  bear  a  letter  sent  in  all  haste  by  the  Lady  Florinda." 


Ce^epds  of  tl?e  ^opquest  of  Spaii)  437 

He  took  the  letter  from  his  bosom  and  presented  it  to  his 
lord.  As  Count  Julian  read  it  his  countenance  darkened  and 
fell.  "This,"  said  he,  bitterly,  "is  my  reward  for  serving  a 
tyrant ;  and  these  are  the  honors  heaped  on  me  by  my  country 
while  fighting  its  battles  in  a  foreign  land.  May  evil  over- 
take me,  and  infamy  rest  upon  my  name,  if  I  cease  until  I 
have  full  measure  of  revenge." 

Count  Julian  was  vehement  in  his  passions  and  took  no 
counsel  in  his  wrath.  His  spirit  was  haughty  in  the  extreme, 
but  destitute  of  true  magnanimity,  and  when  once  wounded, 
turned  to  gall  and  venom.  A  dark  and  malignant  hatred 
entered  into  his  soul,  not  only  against  Don  Roderick,  but 
against  all  Spain :  he  looked  upon  it  as  the  scene  of  his  dis- 
grace, a  land  in  which  his  family  was  dishonored,  and,  in 
seeking  to  avenge  the  wrongs  he  had  suffered  from  his  sov« 
ereign,  he  meditated  against  his  native  country  one  of  the 
blackest  schemes  of  treason  that  ever  entered  into  the  human 
heart.  -* ^  • 

The  plan  of  Count  J  ulian  was  to  hurl  King  Roderick  from 
his  throne,  and  to  deliver  all  Spain  into  the  hands  of  the  in- 
fidels. In  concerting  and  executing  this  treacherous  plot  it 
seemed  as  if  his  whole  nature  was  changed ;  every  lofty  and 
generous  sentiment  was  stifled,  and  he  stooped  to  the  meanest 
dissimulation.  His  first  object  was  to  extricate  his  family 
from  the  power  of  the  king  and  to  remove  it  from  Spain 
before  his  treason  should  be  known;  his  next,  to  deprive 
the  country  of  its  remaining  means  of  defense  against  an 
invader. 

With  these  dark  purposes  at  heart,  but  with  an  open  an<jl 
serene  countenance,  he  crossed  to  Spain  and  repaired  to  the 
court  at  Toledo.  Wherever  he  came  he  was  hailed  with 
acclamation,  as  a  victorious  general,  and  appeared  in  the 
presence  of  his  sovereign  radiant  with  the  victory  at  Ceuta. 
Concealing  from  King  Roderick  his  knowledge  of  the  out- 
rage upon  his  house,  he  professed  nothing  but  the  most 
devoted  loyalty  and  affection. 

The  king  loaded  him  with  favors;   seeking  to  appease  his 


438  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip<$top  Irv!r?$ 

own  conscience  by  heaping  honors  upon  the  father  in  atone- 
ment of  the  deadly  wrong  inflicted  upon  his  child.  He  re- 
garded Count  Julian,  also,  as  a  man  able  and  experienced  in 
warfare,  and  took  his  advice  in  all  matters  relating  to  the 
military  affairs  of  the  kingdom.  The  count  magnified  the 
dangers  that  threatened  the  frontier  under  his  command, 
and  prevailed  upon  the  king  to  send  thither  the  best  horses 
and  arms  remaining  from  the  time  of  Witiza,  there  being  no 
need  of  them  in  the  center  of  Spain,  in  its  present  tranquil 
state.  The  residue,  at  his  suggestion,  was  stationed  on  the 
frontiers  of  Gallia;  so  that  the  kingdom  was  left  almost 
wholly  without  defense  against  any  sudden  irruption  from 
the  south. 

Having  thus  artfully  arranged  his  plans,  and  all  things 
being  prepared  for  his  return  to  Africa,  he  obtained  permis- 
sion to  withdraw  his  daughter  from  the  court,  and  leave  her 
with  her  mother,  the  Countess  Frandina,  who,  he  pretended, 
lay  dangerously  ill  at  Algeziras.  Count  Julian  issued  out  of 
the  gate  of  the  city,  followed  by  a  shining  band  of  chosen 
followers,  while  beside  him,  on  a  palfrey,  rode  the  pale  and 
weeping  Florinda.  The  populace  hailed  and  blessed  him  as 
he  passed,  but  his  heart  turned  from  them  with  loathing. 
As  he  crossed  the  bridge  of  the  Tagus  he  looked  back  with 
a  dark  brow  upon  Toledo,  and  raised  his  mailed  hand  and 
shook  it  at  the  royal  palace  of  King  Roderick,  which  crested 
the  rocky  height.  "A  father's  curse,"  said  he,  "be  upon 
thee  and  thine!  may  desolation  fall  upon  thy  dwelling,  and 
confusion  and  defeat  upon  thy  realm!" 

In  his  journeyings  through  the  country  he  looked  round 
him  with  a  malignant  eye ;  the  pipe  of  the  shepherd  and  the 
song  of  the  husbandman  were  as  discord  to  his  soul;  every 
sight  and  sound  of%  human  happiness  sickened  him  at  heart, 
and,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit,  he  prayed  that  he  might 
see  the  whole  scene  of  prosperity  laid  waste  with  fire  and 
sword  by  the  invader. 

The  story  of  domestic  outrage  and  disgrace  had  already 
been  made  known  to  the  Countess  Frandina.  When  the 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tfye  <?oijquest  of  Spaii?  439 

hapless  Florinda  came  in  presence  of  her  mother,  she  fell  on 
her  neck,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  bosom,  and  wept ;  but  the 
countess  shed  never  a  tear,  for  she  was  a  woman  haughty 
of  spirit  and  strong  of  heart.  She  looked  her  husband 
sternly  in  the  face.  "Perdition  light  upon  thy  head,"  said 
she,  "if  thou  submit  to  this  dishonor.  For  my  own  part, 
woman  as  I  am,  I  will  assemble  the  followers  of  my  house, 
nor  rest  until  rivers  of  blood  have  washed  away  this. stain." 

"Be  satisfied,"  replied  the  count,  "vengeance  is  on  foot, 
and  will  be  sure  and  ample." 

Being  now  in  his  own  domains,  surrounded  by  his  rela- 
tives and  friends,  Count  Julian  went  on  to  complete  his  web 
of  treason.  In  this  he  was  aided  by  his  brother-in-law,  Op- 
pas,  the  bishop  of  Seville :  a  man  dark  and  perfidious  as  the 
night,  but  devout  in  demeanor,  and  smooth  and  plausible  in 
council.  This  artful  prelate  had  contrived  to  work  himself 
into  the  entire  confidence  of  the  king,  and  had  even  prevailed 
upon  him  to  permit  his  nephews,  Evan  and  Siseburto,  the 
exiled  sons  of  Witiza,  to  return  into  Spain.  They  resided  in 
Andalusia,  and  were  now  looked  to  as  fit  instruments  hi  the 
present  traitorous  conspiracy. 

By  the  advice  of  the  bishop,  Count  Julian  called  a  secret 
meeting  of  his  relatives  and  adherents  on  a  wild  rocky  moun- 
tain, not  far  from  Consuegra,  and  which  still  bears  the  Moor- 
ish appellation  of  "La  Sierra  de  Calderin,"  or  the  mountain 
of  treason.*  When  all  were  assembled,  Count  Julian  ap- 
peared among  them,  accompanied  by  the  bishop  and  by  the 
Countess  Frandina.  Then  gathering  around  him  those  who 
were  of  his  blood  and  kindred,  he  revealed  the  outrage  that  t 
had  been  offered  to  their  house.  He  represented  to  them 
that  Roderick  was  their  legitimate  enemy;  that  he  had  de- 
throned Witiza,  their  relation,  and  had  now  stained  the  honor 
of  one  of  the  most  illustrious  daughters  of  their  line.  The 
Countess  Frandina  seconded  his  words.  She  was  a  woman 
majestic  in  person  and  eloquent  of  tongue,  and  being  inspired 

*  Bleda.    Cap.  S. 


440  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii?$toij 

by  a  mother's  feelings,  her  speech  aroused  the  assembled 
cavaliers  to  fury. 

The  count  took  advantage  of  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment to  unfold  his  plan.  The  main  object  was  to  dethrone 
Don  Roderick,  and  give  the  crown  to  the  sons  of  the  late 
King  Witiza.  By  this  means  they  would  visit  the  sins  of 
the  tyrant  upon  his  head,  and,  at  the  same  time,  restore  the 
regal  honors  to  their  line.  For  this  purpose  their  own  force 
would  be  sufficient,  but  they  might  procure  the  aid  of  Muza 
ben  Nosier,  the  Arabian  general,  in  Mauritania,  who  would 
no  doubt  gladly  send  a  part  of  his  troops  into  Spain  to  assist 
in  the  enterprise. 

The  plot  thus  suggested  by  Count  Julian  received  the 
unholy  sanction  of  Bishop  Oppas,  who  engaged  to  aid  it 
secretly  with  all  his  influence  and  means;  for  he  had  great 
wealth  and  possessions,  and  many  retainers.  The  example 
of  the  reverend  prelate  determined  all  who  might  otherwise 
have  wavered,  and  they  bound  themselves  by  dreadful  oaths 
to  be  true  to  the  conspiracy.  Count  Julian  undertook  to 
proceed  to  Africa,  and  seek  the  camp  of  Muza,  to  negotiate 
for  his  aid,  while  the  bishop  was  to  keep  about  the  person  of 
King  Roderick,  and  lead  him  into  the  net  prepared  for  him. 

All  things  being  thus  arranged,  Count  Julian  gathered 
together  his  treasure,  and  taking  his  wife  and  daughter  and 
all  his  household,  abandoned  the  country  he  meant  to  betray ; 
embarking  at  Malaga  for  Ceuta.  The  gate  in  the  wall  of 
that  city,  through  which  they  went  forth,  continued  for  ages 
to  bear  the  name  of  Puerto,  de  la  Cava,  or  the  gate  of  the 
harlot;  for  such  was  the  opprobrious  and  unmerited 'appella- 
tion bestowed  by  the  Moors  on  the  unhappy  Florinda.* 

*  Bleda.    Cap.  4. 


Ce^epds  of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spaip  441 


CHAPTER  NINE 

SECRET   VISIT    OF    COUNT    JULIAN    TO    THE    ARAB    CAMP 
—  FIRST    EXPEDITION    OF    TARIC    EL    TUERTO 

WHEN  Count  Julian  had  placed  his  family  in  security  in 
Ceuta,  surrounded  by  soldiery  devoted  to  his  fortunes,  he 
took  with  him  a  few  confidential  followers,  and  departed  in 
secret  for  the  camp  of  the  Arabian  Emir,  Muza  ben  Nosier. 
The  camp  was  spread  out  in  one  of  those  pastoral  valleys 
which  lie  at  the  feet  of  the  Barbary  hills,  with  the  great 
range  of  the  Atlas  mountains  towering  in  the  distance.  In 
the  motley  army  here  assembled  were  warriors  of  every  tribe 
and  nation  that  had  been  united  by  pact  or  conquest  in  the 
cause  of  Islam.  There  were  those  who  had  followed  Muza  from 
the  fertile  regions  of  Egypt,  across  the  deserts  of  Barca,  and 
those  who  had  joined  his  standard  from  among  the  sunburned 
tribes  of  Mauritania.  There  were  Saracen  and  Tartar,  Syrian 
and  Copt,  and  swarthy  Moor;  sumptuous  warriors  from  the 
civilized  cities  of  the  east,  and  the  gaunt  and  predatory  rovers 
of  the  desert.  The  greater  part  of  the  army,  however,  was 
composed  of  Arabs;  but  differing  greatly  from  the  first  rude 
hordes  that  enlisted  under  the  banner  of  Mahomet.  Almost 
a  century  of  continual  wars  with  the  cultivated  nations  of 
the  east  had  rendered  them  accomplished  warriors;  and  the 
occasional  sojourn  in  luxurious  countries  and  populous  cities 
had  acquainted  them  with  the  arts  and  habits  of  civilized  life: 
Still  the  roving,  restless,  and  predatory  habits  of  the  genuine 
son  of  Ishmael  prevailed,  in  defiance  of  every  change  of  clime 
or  situation. 

Count  Julian  found  the  Arab  conqueror  Muza  surrounded 
by  somewhat  of  Oriental  state  and  splendor.  He  was  ad- 
vanced in  life,  but  of  a  noble  presence,  and  concealed  his  age 
by  tinging  his  hair  and  beard  with  henna.  The  count  as- 
sumed an  air  of  soldier-like  frankness  and  decision  when  he 


442  U/orl^s  of  UYasl?ip<$toi) 

came  into  his  presence.  "Hitherto,"  said  he,  "we  have 
been  enemies,  but  I  come  to  thee  in  peace,  and  it  rests  with 
thee  to  make  me  the  most  devoted  of  thy  friends.  I  have  no 
longer  country  or  king.  Roderick  the  Goth  is  a  usurper, 
and  my  deadly  foe ;  he  has  wounded  my  honor  in  the  tender- 
est  point,  and  my  country  affords  me  no  redress.  Aid  me  in 
my  vengeance,  and  I  will  deliver  all  Spain  into  thy  hands : 
a  land  far  exceeding  in  fertility  and  wealth  all  the  vaunted 
regions  thou  hast  conquered  in  Tingitania. ' ' 

The  heart  of  Muza  leaped  with  joy  at  these  words,  for  he 
was  a  bold  and  ambitious  conqueror,  and,  having  overrun  all 
western  Africa,  had  often  cast  a  wistful  eye  to  the  mountains 
of  Spain,  as  he  beheld  them  brightening  beyond  the  waters 
of  the  strait.  Still  he  possessed  the  caution  of  a  veteran, 
and  feared  to  engage  in  an  enterprise  of  such  moment, 
and  to  carry  his  arms  into  another  division  of  the  globe, 
without  the  approbation  of  his  sovereign.  Having  drawn 
from  Count  Julian  the  particulars  of  his  plan,  and  of  the 
means  he  possessed  to  carry  it  into  effect,  he  laid  them  before 
his  confidential  counselors  and  officers,  and  demanded  their 
opinion.  "These  words  of  Count  Julian,"  said  he,  "may  be 
false  and  deceitful ;  or  he  may  not  possess  the  power  to  ful- 
fill his  promises.  The  whole  may  be  a  pretended  treason  to 
draw  us  on  to  our  destruction.  It-  is  more  natural  that  he 
should  be  treacherous  to  us  than. to  his  country." 

Among  the  generals  of  Muza  was  a  gaunt  swarthy  vet- 
eran, scarred  with  wounds;  a  very  Arab,  whose  great  de- 
light was  roving  and  desperate  enterprise,  and  who  cared  for 
nothing  beyond  his  steed,  his  lance,  and  scimiter.  He  was 
a  native  of  Damascus ;  his  name  was  Taric  ben  Zeyad,  but, 
from  having  lost  an  eye,  he  was  known  among  the  Spaniards 
by  the  appellation  of  Taric  el  Tuerto,  or  Taric,  the  one-eyed. 

The  hot  blood  of  this  veteran  Ishmaelite  was  in  a  ferment 
when  he  heard  of  a  new  country  to  invade,  and  vast  regions 
to  subdue,  and  he  dreaded  lest  the  cautious  hesitation  of 
Muza  should  permit  the  glorious  prize  to  escape  them.  "You 
speak  doubtingly,"  said  he,  "of  the  words  of  this  Christian 


Ce<$ei?ds  of  tfoe  ^opquest  of  Spaip  443 

cavalier,  but  their  truth  is  easily  to  be  ascertained.  Give 
me  four  galleys  and  a  handful  of  men,  and  I  will  depart 
with  this  Count  Julian,  skirt  the  Christian  coast,  and  bring 
thee  back  tidings  of  the  land,  and  of  his  means  to  put  it  in 
our  power." 

The  words  of  the  veteran  pleased  Muza  ben  Nosier,  and 
he  gave  his  consent ;  and  Taric  departed  with  four  galleys 
and  five  hundred  men,  guided  by  the  traitor  Julian.*  This 
first  expedition  of  the  Arabs  against  Spain  took  place,  accord- 
ing to  certain  historians,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  seven  hun- 
dred and  twelve ;  though  others  differ  on  this  point,  as  indeed 
they  do  upon  almost  every  point  in  this  early  period  of  Span- 
ish history.  The  date  to  which  the  judicious  chroniclers 
incline,  is  that  of  seven  hundred  and  ten,  in  the  month  of 
July.  It  would  appear  from  some  authorities,  also,  that  the 
galleys  of  Taric  cruised  along  the  coasts  of  Andalusia  and 
Lusitania,  under  the  feigned  character  of  merchant  barks, 
nor  is  this  at  all  improbable,  while  they  were  seeking  merely 
to  observe  the  land,  and  get  a  knowledge  of  the  harbors. 
Wherever  they  touched,  Count  Julian  dispatched  emissaries 
to  assemble  his  friends  and  adherents  at  an  appointed  place. 
They  gathered  together  secretly  at  Gezira  Alhadra,  that  is 
to  say,  the  Green  Island,  where  they  held  a  conference  with 
Count  Julian  in  presence  of  Taric  ben  Zeyad.  f  Here  they 
again  avowed  their  readiness  to  flock  to  his  standard  when- 
ever it  should  be  openly  raised,  and  made  known  their  vari- 
ous preparations  for  a  rebellion.  Taric  was  convinced, -by  all 
that  he  had  seen  and  heard,  that  Count  Julian  had  not  de- 
ceived them,  either  as  to  his  disposition  or  his  means  to  be-  , 
tray  his  country.  Indulging  his  Arab  inclinations,  he  made 
an  inroad  into  the  land,  collected  great  spoil  and  many  cap- 
tives, and  bore  off  his  plunder  in  triumph  to  Muza,  as  a 
specimen  of  the  riches  to  be  gained  by  the  conquest  of  the 
Christian  land.  J 

*  Beuter,  Cron.  Gee.  de  Espana,  L.  1,  c.  28.    Marmol.  Descrip.  de 
Africa,  L.  2,  c.  10. 

f  Bleda.  Cron.  c.  5.  J  Conde.  Hist.  Dom  Arab,  part  1,  c.  8. 


of  U/a8l?ir><Jtoi} 


CHAPTER  TEN 

LETTER    OP    MUZA    TO    THE     CALIPH— SECOND     EXPEDITION 
OF    TARIC    EL    TUERTO 

ON  hearing  the  tidings  brought  by  Taric  el  Tuerto,  and 
beholding  the  spoil  he  had  collected,  Muza  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  Caliph  Waled  Almanzor,  setting  forth  the  traitorous 
proffer  of  Count  Julian,  and  the  probability,  through  his 
means,  of  making  a  successful  invasion  of  Spain.  "A  new- 
land,"  said  he,  "spreads  itself  out  before  our  delighted  eyes, 
and  invites  our  conquest.  A  land,  too,  that  equals  Syria  in 
the  fertility  of  its  soil,  and  the  serenity  of  its  sky;  Yemen, 
or  Arabia  the  happy,  in  its  delightful  temperature ;  India  in 
its  flowers  and  spices;  Hegiaz  in  its  fruits  and  flowers; 
Cathay  in  its  precious  minerals,  and  Aden  in  the  excellence 
of  its  ports  and  harbors.  It  is  populous  also,  and  wealthy; 
having  many  splendid  cities  and  majestic  monuments  of  an- 
cient art.  What  is  to  prevent  this  glorious  land  from  be- 
coming the  inheritance  of  the  faithful?  Already  we  have 
overcome  the  tribes  of  Berbery,  of  Zab,  of  Derar,  of  Zaara, 
Mazamuda  and  Sus,  and  the  victorious  standard  of  Islam 
floats  on  the  towers  of  Tangier.  But  four  leagues  of  sea 
separate  us  from  the  opposite  coast.  One  word  from  my 
sovereign,  and  the  conquerors  of  Africa  will  pour  their 
legions  into  Andalusia,  rescue  it  from  the  domination  of  the 
unbeliever,  and  subdue  it  to  the  law  of  the  Koran."  * 

The  caliph  was  overjoyed  with  the  contents  of  the  letter. 
"God  is  great!"  exclaimed  he,  "and  Mahomet  is  his  prophet! 
It  has  been  foretold  by  the  embassador  of  God  that  his  law 
should  extend  to  the  ultimate  parts  of  the  west,  and  be  car- 
ried by  the  sword  into  new  and  unknown  regions.  Behold 
another  land  is  opened  for  the  triumphs  of  the  faithful.  It 

*  Conde,  part  1,  c.  8. 


Ce<jei?ds  of  tl?e  ^opquest  of  Spaii?  445 

is  the  will  of  Allah,  and  be  his  sovereign  will  obeyed. ' '  So 
the  caliph  sent  missives  to  Muza,  authorizing  him  to  under- 
take the  conquest. 

Upon  this  there  was  a  great  stir  of  preparation,  and 
numerous  vessels  were  assembled  and  equipped  at  Tangier  to 
convey  the  invading  army  across  the  straits.  Twelve  thou- 
sand men  were  chosen  for  this  expedition :  most  of  them  light 
Arabian  troops,  seasoned  in  warfare,  and  fitted  for  hardy 
and  rapid  enterprise.  Among  them  were  many  horsemen, 
mounted  on  fleet  Arabian  steeds.  The  whole  was  put  under 
the  command  of  the  veteran,  Taric  el  Tuerto,  or  the  one- 
eyed,  in  whom  Muza  reposed  implicit  confidence  as  in  a 
second  self.  Taric  accepted  the  command  with  joy;  his 
martial  fire  was  roused  at  the  idea  of  having  such  an  army 
under  his  sole  command,  and  such  a  country  to  overrun,  and 
he  secretly  determined  never  to  return  unless  victorious. 

He  chose  a  dark  night  to  convey  his  troops  across  the 
straits  of  Hercules,  and  by  break  of  day  they  began  to  dis- 
embark at  Tarifa  before  the  country  had  time  to  take  the 
alarm.  A  few  Christians  hastily  assembled  from  the  neigh- 
borhood and  opposed  their  landing,  but  were  easily  put  to 
flight.  Taric  stood  on  the  seaside,  and  watched  until  the  last 
squadron  had  landed,  and  all  the  horses,  armor,  and  muni- 
tions of  war  were  brought  on  shore;  he  then  gave  orders  to 
set  fire  to  the  ships.  The  Moslems  were  struck  with  terror 
when  they  beheld  their  fleet  wrapped  in  flames  and  smoke, 
and  sinking  beneath  the  waves.  "How  shall  we  escape," 
exclaimed  they,  "if  the  fortune  of  war  should  be  against  us?" 
"There  is  no  escape  for  the  coward!"  cried  Taric,  "the  brav$ 
man  thinks  of  none;  your  only  chance  is  victory."  "But 
how  without  ships  shall  we  ever  return  to  our  homes?" 
"Your  home,"  replied  Taric,  "is  before  you;  but  you  must 
win  it  with  your  swords." 

While  Taric  was  yet  talking  with  his  followers,  says  one 
of  the  ancient  chroniclers,  a  Christian  female  was  descried 
waving  a  white  pennon  on  a  reed,  in  signal  of  peace.  On 
being  brought  into  the  presence  of  Taric,  she  prostrated  her- 


446  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii)<Jtoij 

self  before  him.  "Senior,"  said  she,  "I  am  an  ancient 
woman ;  and  it  is  now  full  sixty  years  past  and  gone  since, 
as  I  was  keeping  vigils  one  winter's  night  by  the  fireside, 
I  heard  my  father,  who  was  an  exceeding  old  man,  read  a 
prophecy  said  to  have  been  written  by  a  holy  friar ;  and  this 
was  the  purport  of  the  prophecy,  that  a  time  would  arrive 
when  our  country  would  be  invaded  and  conquered  by  a 
people  from  Africa  of  a  strange  garb,  a  strange  tongue,  a-nd 
a  strange  religion.  They  were  to  be  led  by  a  strong  and 
valiant  captain,  who  would  be  known  by  these  signs :  on  his 
right  shoulder  he  would  have  a  hairy  mole,  and  his  right  arm 
would  be  much  longer  than  the  left,  and  of  such  length  as  to 
enable  him  to  cover  his  knee  with  his  hand  without  bending 
his  body. 

Taric  listened  to  the  old  beldame  with  grave  attention, 
and  when  she  had  concluded,  he  laid  bare  his  shoulder,  and 
lo !  there  was  the  mole  as  it  had  been  described ;  his  right 
arm,  also,  was  in  verity  found  to  exceed  the  other  in  length, 
though  not  to  the  degree  that  had  been  mentioned.  Upon 
this  the  Arab  host  shouted  for  joy  and  felt  assured  of  con- 
quest. 

The  discreet  Antonio  Agapida,  though  he  records  this 
circumstance  as  it  is  set  down  in  ancient  chronicle,  yet  with- 
holds his  belief  from  the  pretended  prophecy,  considering  the 
whole  a  cunning  device  of  Taric  to  increase  the  courage  of 
his  troops.  "Doubtless,"  says  he,  "there  was  a  collusion 
between  this  ancient  sybil  and  the  crafty  son  of  Ishmael;  for 
these  infidel  leaders  were  full  of  damnable  inventions  to  work 
upon  the  superstitious  fancies  of  their  followers,  and  to  in- 
spire them  with  a  blind  confidence  in  the  success  of  their 
arms." 

Be  this  as  it  majr,  the  veteran  Taric  took  advantage  of 
the  excitement  of  his  soldiery,  and  led  them  forward  to  gain 
possession  of  a  stronghold,  which  was,  in  a  manner,  the  key 
to  all  the  adjacent  country.  This  was  a  lofty  mountain  or 
promontory  almost  surrounded  by  the  sea,  and  connected 
with  the  mainland  by  a  narrow  isthmus.  It  was  called  the 


Ce<$ei?ds  of  tl?e  Qoijquest  of  Spaii)  447 

rock  of  Calpe,  and,  like  the  opposite  rock  of  Ceuta,  com- 
manded the  entrance  to  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  Here,  in  old 
times,  Hercules  had  set  up  one  of  his  pillars,  and  the  city  of 
Heraclea  had  been  built. 

As  Taric  advanced  against  this  promontory,  he  was  op- 
posed by  a  hasty  levy  of  the  Christians,  who  had  assembled 
under  the  banner  of  a  Gothic  noble  of  great  power  and  im- 
portance, whose  domains  lay  along  the  mountainous  coast  of 
the  Mediterranean.  The  name  of  this  Christian  cavalier  was 
Theodomir,  but  he  has  universally  been  called  Tadmir  by  the 
Arabian  historians,  and  is  renowned  as  being  the  first  com- 
mander that  made  any  stand  against  the  inroad  of  the  Mos- 
lems. He  was  about  forty  years  of  age ;  hardy,  prompt,  and 
sagacious;  and  had  all  the  Gothic  nobles  been  equally  vigi- 
lant and  shrewd  in  their  defense,  the  banner  of  Islam  would 
never  have  triumphed  over  the  land. 

Theodomir  had  but  seventeen  hundred  men  under  his 
command,  and  these  but  rudely  armed ;  yet  he  made  a  reso- 
lute stand  against  the  army  of  Taric,  and  defended  the  pass 
to  the  promontory  with  great  valor.  He  was,  at  length, 
obliged  to  retreat,  and  Tarid  advanced  and  planted  his  stand- 
ard on  the  rock  of  Calpe,  and  fortified  it  as  his  stronghold, 
and  as  the  means  of  securing  an  entrance  into  the  land.  To 
commemorate  his  first  victory,  he  changed  the  name  of  the 
promontory,  and  called  it  Gibel  Taric,  or  the  mountain  of 
Taric,  but  in  process  of  time  the  name  has  gradually  been 
altered  to  Gibraltar. 

In  the  meantime,  the  patriotic  chieftain  Theodomir,  hav- 
ing collected  his  routed  forces,  encamped  with  them  on  the 
skirts  of  the  mountains,  and  summoned  the  country  round  to 
join  his  standard.  He  sent  off  missives  in  all  speed  to  the 
king,  imparting  in  brief  and  blunt  terms  the  news  of  the  in- 
vasion, and  craving  assistance  with  equal  frankness.  "Sen- 
ior," said  he,  in  his  letter,  "the  legions  of  Africa  are  upon 
us,  but  whether  they  come  from  heaven  or  earth  I  know  not. 
They  seem  to  have  fallen  from  the  clouds,  for  they  have  no 
ships.  We  have  been  taken  by  surprise,  overpowered  by 


448  U/orKs  of  U/asbii?$toi> 

numbers,  and  obliged  to  retreat;  and  the}'  have  fortified 
themselves  in  our  territory.  Send  us  aid,  senior,  with  instant 
speed,  or  rather,  come  yourself  to  our  assistance,"* 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

MEASURES    OF    DON    RODERICK    ON    HEARING    OF    THE   INVA- 
SION— EXPEDITION   OF  ATAULPHO — VISION   OF    TARIC 

WHEN  Don  Roderick  heard  that  legions  of  turbaned 
troops  had  poured  into  the  land  from  Africa,  he  called  to 
mind  the  visions  and  predictions  of  the  necromantic  tower, 
and  great  fear  came  upon  him.  But,  though  sunk  from  his 
former  hardihood  and  virtue,  though  enervated  by  indul- 
gence, and  degraded  in  spirit  by  a  consciousness  of  crime,  he 
was  resolute  of  soul,  and  roused  himself  to  meet  the  coming 
danger.  He  summoned  a  hasty  levy  of  horse  and  foot, 
amounting  to  forty  thousand;  but  now  were  felt  the  effects 
of  the  crafty  counsel  of  Count  Julian;  for  the  best  of  the 
horses  and  armor  intended  for  tjie  public  service  had  been 
sent  into  Africa,  and  were  really  in  possession  of  the  traitors. 
Many  nobles,  it  is  true,  took  the  field  with  the  sumptuous 
array  with  which  they  had  been  accustomed  to  appear  at 
tournaments  and  jousts,  but  most  of  their  vassals  were  desti- 
tute of  weapons,  and  cased  in  cuirasses  of  leather  or  suits  of 
armor  almost  consumed  by  rust.  They  were  without  dis- 
cipline or  animation;  and  their  horses,  like  themselves, 
pampered  by  slothful  peace,  were  little  fitted  to  bear  the 
heat,  the  dust,  and  toil  of  long  campaigns. 

This  army  Don  Roderick  put  under  the  command  of  his 
kinsman  Ataulpho,  a  prince  of  the  royal  blood  of  the  Goths, 
and  of  a  noble  and  generous  nature;  and  he  ordered  him  to 
march  with  all  speed  to  meet  the  foe,  and  to  recruit  his  forces 
on  the  way  with  the  troops  of  Theodomir. 

In  the  meantime,   Taric  el  Tuerto  had    received    large 

*  Conde.     Part  1,  c.  9. 


Ce$ei?ds  of  tl?e  <?oi?quest  of  Spaii?  449 

re-enforcements  from  Africa,  and  the  adherents  of  Count 
Julian,  and  all  those  discontented  with  the  sway  of  Don 
Roderick,  had  flocked  to  his  standard ;  for  many  were  de- 
ceived by  the  representations  of  Count  Julian,  and  thought 
that  the  Arabs  had  come  to  aid  him  in  placing  the  sons  of 
Witiza  upon  the  throne.  Guided  by  the  count,  the  troops  of 
Taric  penetrated  into  various  parts  of  the  country,  and  laid 
waste  the  land ;  bringing  back  loads  of  spoil  to  their  strong- 
hold at  the  rock  of  Calpe. 

The  Prince  Ataulpho  marched  with  his  army  through 
Andalusia,  and  was  joined  by  Theodomir  with  his  troops; 
he  met  with  various  detachments  of  the  enemy  foraging  the 
country,  and  had  several  bloody  skirmishes ;  but  he  succeeded 
in  driving  them  before  him,  and  they  retreated  to  the  rock  of 
Calpe,  where  Taric  lay  gathered  up  with  the  main  body  of 
his  army. 

The  prince  encamped  not  far  from  the  bay  which  spreads 
itself  out  before  the  promontory.  In  the  evening  he  dis- 
patched the  veteran  Theodomir,  with  a  trumpet,  to  demand  a 
parley  of  the  Arab  chieftain,  who  received  the  envoy  in  his 
tent  surrounded  by  his  captains.  Theodomir  was  frank  and 
abrupt  in  speech,  for  the  most  of  his  life  had  been  passed  far 
from  courts.  He  delivered,  in  round  terms,  the  message  of 
the  Prince  Ataulpho;  upbraiding  the  Arab  general  with  his 
wanton  invasion  of  the  land,  and  summoning  him  to  sur- 
render his  army  or  to  expect  no  mercy. 

The  single  eye  of  Taric  el  Tuerto  glowed  like  a  coal  of  fire 
at  this  message.  "Tell  your  commander,"  replied  he,  "that 
I  have  crossed  the  strait  to  conquer  Spain,  nor  wih1  I  return 
until  I  have  accomplished  my  purpose.  Tell  him  I  have  men 
skilled  in  war,  and  armed  in  proof,  with  whose  aid  I  trust 
soon  to  give  a  good  account  of  his  rabble  host." 

A  murmur  of  applause  passed  through  the  assemblage 
of  Moslem  captains.  Theodomir  glanced  on  them  a  look  of 
defiance,  but  his  eye  rested  on  a  renegado  Christian,  one  of 
his  own  ancient  comrades,  and  a  relation  of  Count  Julian. 
"As  to  you,  Don  Greybeard,"  said  he,  "you  who  turn  apos- 


450  U/orKs  of  U/ast?ii?$toi> 

tate  in  your  declining  age,  I  here  pronounce  you  a  traitor  to 
your  God,  your  king  and  country;  and  stand  ready  to  prove 
it  this  instant  upon  your  body,  if  field  be  granted  me." 

The  traitor  knight  was  stung  with  rage  at  these  words, 
for  truth  rendered  them  piercing  to  the  heart.  He  would 
have  immediately  answered  to  the  challenge,  but  Taric  for- 
bade it,  and  ordered  that  the  Christian  envoy  should  be  con- 
ducted from  the  camp.  "Tis  well,"  replied  Theodomir, 
' '  God  will  give  me  the  field  which  you  deny.  Let  yon  hoary 
apostate  look  to  himself  to-morrow  in  the  battle,  for  I  pledge 
myself  to  use  my  lance  upon  no  other  foe  until  it  has  shed  his 
blood  upon  the  native  soil  he  has  betrayed."  So  saying,  he 
left  the  camp,  nor  could  the  Moslem  chieftains  help  admiring 
the  honest  indignation  of  this  patriot  knight,  while  they 
secretly  despised  his  renegado  adversary. 

The  ancient  Moorish  chroniclers  relate  many  awful  por- 
tents, and  strange  and  mysterious  visions,  which  appeared  to 
the  commanders  of  either  army  during  this  anxious  night. 
Certainly  it  was  a  night  of  fearful  suspense,  and  Moslem  and 
Christian  looked  forward  with  doubt  to  the  fortune  of  the 
coming  day.  The  Spanish  sentinel  walked  his  pensive  round, 
listening  occasionally  to  the  vague  sounds  from  the  distant 
rock  of  Calpe,  and  eying  it  as  the  mariner  eyes  the  thunder 
cloud,  pregnant  with  terror  and  destruction.  The  Arabs, 
too,  from  their  loftj7  cliffs,  beheld  the  numerous  camp-fires  of 
the  Christians  gradually  lighted  up,  and  saw  that  they  were 
a  powerful  host;  at  the  same  time  the  night  breeze  brought 
to  their  ears  the  sullen  roar  of  the  sea  which  separated  them 
from  Africa.  "When  they  considered  their  perilous  situation, 
an  army  on  one  side,  with  a  whole  nation  aroused  to  re-enforce 
it,  and  on  the  other  an  impassable  sea,  the  spirits  of  many  of 
the  warriors  were  cast  down,  and  they  repented  the  day 
when  they  had  ventured  into  this  hostile  land. 

Taric  marked  their  despondency,  but  said  nothing.  Scarce 
had  the  first  streak  of  morning  light  trembled  along  the  sea, 
however,  when  he  summoned  his  principal  warriors  to  his 
tent.  "Be  of  good  cheer,"  said  he,  "Allah  is  with  us,  and 


Ce<fei}d8  of  tl?e  <?oi)quest  of  Spaii?  451 

has  sent  his  prophet  to  give  assurance  of  his  aid.  Scarce  had 
I  retired  to  my  tent  last  night  when  a  man  of  a  majestic  and 
venerable  presence  stood  before  me.  He  was  taller  by  a 
palm  than  the  ordinary  race  of  men,  his  flowing  beard  was 
of  a  golden  hue,  and  his  eyes  were  so  bright  that  they  seemed 
to  send  forth  flashes  of  fire.  I  have  heard  the  Emir  Bahamet, 
and  other  ancient  men,  describe  the  Prophet,  whom  they  had 
seen  many  times  while  on  earth,  and  such  was  his  form  and 
lineament.  'Fear  nothing,  O  Taric,  from  the  morrow,'  said 
he,  'I  will  be  with  thee  in  the  fight.  Strike  boldly,  then,  and 
conquer.  Those  of  thy  followers  who  survive  the  battle  will 
have  this  land  for  an  inheritance ;  for  those  who  fall,  a  man- 
sion in  paradise  is  prepared,  and  immortal  houris  await  their 
coming.'  He  spake  and  vanished;  I  heard  a  strain  of  celes- 
tial melody,  and  my  tent  was  filled  with  the  odors  of  Arabia 
the  happy."  "Such,"  says  the  Spanish  chroniclers,  "was 
another  of  the  arts  by  which  this  arch  son  of  Ishmael  sought 
to  animate  the  hearts  of  his  followers;  and  the  pretended 
vision  has  been  recorded  by  the  Arabian  writers  as  a  veritable 
occurrence.  Marvelous,  indeed,  was  the  effect  produced  by 
it  upon  the  infidel  soldiery,  who  now  cried  out  with  eagerness 
to  be  led  against  the  foe." 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

BATTLE  OF  CALPE— FATE  OF  ATATJLPHO 

THE  gray  summits  of  the  rock  of  Calpe  brightened  with 
the  first  rays  of  morning,  as  the  Christian  army  issued  forth 
from  its  encampment.  The  Prince  Ataulpho  rode  from 
squadron  to  squadron,  animating  his  soldiers  for  the  battle. 
"Never  should  we  sheath  our  swords,"  said  he,  "while  these 
infidels  have  a  footing  in  the  land.  They  are  pent  up  within 
yon  rocky  mountain ;  we  must  assail  them  in  their  rugged 
hold.  We  have  a  long  day  before  us ;  let  not  the  setting  sun 
ghine  upon  one  of  their  host  who  is  not  a  fugitive,  a  captive, 
or  a  corpse." 


452  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii>$toi}  Iruii?$ 

The  words  of  the  prince  were  received  with  shouts,  and 
the  army  moved  toward  the  promontory.  As  they  advanced, 
they  heard  the  clash  of  cymbals  and  the  bray  of  trumpets, 
and  the  rocky  bosom  of  the  mountain  glittered  with  helms 
and  spears  and  scimiters;  for  the  Arabs,  inspired  with  fresh 
confidence  by  the  words  of  Taric,  were  sallying  forth,  with 
flaunting  banners,  to  the  combat. 

The  gaunt  Arab  chieftain  stood  upon  a  rock  as  his  troops 
marched  by;  his  buckler  was  at  his  back,  and  he  brandished 
in  his  hand  a  double-pointed  spear.  Calling  upon  the  several 
leaders  by  their  names,  he  exhorted  them  to  direct  their  at- 
tacks against  the  Christian  captains,  and  especially  against 
Ataulpho,  "for  the  chiefs  being  slain,"  said  he,  "their  fol- 
lowers will  vanish  from  before  us  like  the  morning  mist." 

The  Gothic  nobles  were  easily  to  be  distinguished  by  the 
splendor  of  their  arms,  but  the  Prince  Ataulpho  was  con- 
spicuous above  all  the  rest  for  the  youthful  grace  and  majesty 
of  his  appearance,  and  the  bravery  of  his  array.  He  was 
mounted  on  a  superb  Andalusian  charger,  richly  caparisoned 
with  crimson  velvet,  embroidered  with  gold.  His  surcoat 
was  of  like  color  and  adornment,  and  the  plumes  that  waved 
above  his  burnished  helmet  were  of  the  purest  white.  Ten 
mounted  pages,  magnificently  attired,  followed  him  to  the 
field,  but  their  duty  was  not  so  much  to  fight  as  to  attend 
upon  their  lord,  and  to  furnish  him  with  steed  or  weapon. 

The  Christian  troops,  though  irregular  and  undisciplined, 
were  full  of  native  courage ;  for  the  old  warrior  spirit  of  their 
Gothic  sires  still  glowed  in  their  bosoms.  There  were  two 
battalions  of  infantry,  but  Ataulpho  stationed  them  in  the 
rear,  "for  God  forbid,"  said  he,  "that  foot-soldiers  should 
have  the  place  of  honor  in  the  battle,  when  I  have  so  many 
valiant  cavaliers."  As  the  armies  drew  nigh  to  each  other, 
however,  it  was  discovered  that  the  advance  of  the  Arabs 
was  composed  of  infantry.  Upon  this  the  cavaliers  checked 
their  steeds,  and  requested  that  the  foot  soldiery  might  ad- 
vance and  disperse  this  losel  crew,  holding  it  beneath  their 
dignity  to  contend  with  pedestrian  foes.  The  prince,  how 


Ce$er>ds  of  tl?e  <?or>quest  of  Spalp  453 

ever,  commanded  them  to  charge ;  upon  which,  putting  spurs 
to  their  steeds,  they  rushed  upon  the  foe. 

The  Arabs  stood  the  shock  manfully,  receiving  the  horses 
upon  the  points  of  their  lances;  many  of  the  riders  were  shot 
down  with  bolts  from  crossbows,  or  stabbed  with  the  pon- 
iards of  the  Moslems.  The  cavaliers  succeeded,  however,  in 
breaking  into  the  midst  of  the  battalion  and  throwing  it  into 
confusion,  cutting  down  some  with  their  swords,  transpiercing 
others  with  their  spears,  and  trampling  many  under  the 
hoofs  of  their  horses.  At  this  moment  they  were  attacked  by 
a  band  of  Spanish  horsemen,  the  recreant  partisans  of  Count 
Julian.  Their  assault  bore  hard  upon  their  countrymen,  who 
were  disordered  by  the  contest  with  the  foot-soldiers,  and 
many  a  loyal  Christian  knight  fell  beneath  the  sword  of  an 
unnatural  foe. 

The  foremost  among  these  recreant  warriors  was  the  rene- 
gado  cavalier  whom  Theodomir  had  challenged  in  the  tent 
of  Taric.  He  dealt  his  blows  about  him  with  a  powerful  arm 
and  with  malignant  fury,  for  nothing  is  more  deadly  than 
the  hatred  of  an  apostate.  In  the  midst  of  his  career  he  was 
espied  by  the  hardy  Theodomir,  who  came  spurring  to  the 
encounter:  "Traitor,"  cried  he,  "I  have  kept  my  vow.  This 
lance  has  been  held  sacred  from  all  other  foes  to  make  a 
passage  for  thy  perjured  soul."  The  renegado  had  been 
renowned  for  prowess  before  he  became  a  traitor  to  his 
country,  but  guilt  will  sap  the  courage  of  the  stoutest  heart. 
When  he  beheld  Theodomir  rushing  upon  him,  he  would 
have  turned  and  fled ;  pride  alone  withheld  him ;  and,  though 
an  admirable  master  of  defense,  he  lost  all  skill  to  ward  the 
attack  of  his  adversary.  At  the  first  assault  the  lance  of 
Theodomir  pierced  him  through  and  through ;  he  fell  to  the 
earth,  gnashed  his  teeth  as  he  rolled  in  the  dust,  but  yielded 
his  breath  without  uttering  a  word. 

The  battle  now  became  general,  and  lasted  throughout  the 
morning  with  varying  success.  The  stratagem  of  Taric, 
however,  began  to  produce  its  effect.  The  Christian  leaders 
and  most  conspicuous  cavaliers  were  singled  out  and  sever- 


454  U/orKs  of  U/asf?ir>$tor? 

ally  assailed  by  overpowering  numbers.  They  fought  desper- 
ately and  performed  miracles  of  prowess,  but  fell,  one  by  one, 
beneath  a  thousand  wounds.  Still,  the  battle  lingered  on 
throughout  a  great  part  of  the  day,  and  as  the  declining  sun 
shone  through  the  clouds  of  dust,  it  seemed  as  if  the  conflict- 
ing hosts  were  wrapped  in  smoke  and  fire. 

The  Prince  Ataulpho  saw  that  the  fortune  of  battle  was 
against  him.  He  rode  about  the  field  calling  out  the  names  of 
the  bravest  of  his  knights,  but  few  answered  to  his  call;  the 
rest  lay  mangled  on  the  field.  With  this  handful  of  warriors 
he  endeavored  to  retrieve  the  day,  when  he  was  assailed  by 
Tenderos,  a  partisan  of  Count  Julian,  at  the  head  of  a  body 
of  recreant  Christians.  At  sight  of  this  new  adversary,  fire 
flashed  from  the  eyes  of  the  prince,  for  Tenderos  had  been 
brought  up  in  his  father's  palace.  "Well  dost  thou, 
traitor!"  cried  he,  "to  attack  the  son  of  thy  lord,  who  gave 
thee  bread;  thou,  who  hast  betrayed  thy  country  and  thy 
God!" 

So  saying,  he  seized  a  lance  from  one  of  his  pages,  and 
charged  furiously  upon  the  apostate;  but  Tenderos  met  him 
in  mid  career,  and  the  lance  of  the  prince  was  shivered  upon 
his  shield.  Ataulpho  then  grasped  his  mace,  which  hung  at 
his  saddle  bow,  and  a  doubtful  fight  ensued.  Tenderos  was 
powerful  of  frame  and  superior  in  the  use  of  his  weapons, 
but  the  curse  of  treason  seemed  to  paralyze  his  arm.  He 
wounded  Ataulpho  slightly  between  the  greaves  of  his  armor, 
but  the  prince  dealt  a  blow  with  his  mace  that  crushed 
through  helm  and  skull  and  reached  the  brains ;  and  Tenderoe 
fell  dead  to  earth,  his  armor  rattling  as  he  fell. 

At  the  same  moment,  a  javelin  hurled  by  an  Arab  trans- 
pierced the  horse  of  Ataulpho,  which  sunk  beneath  him. 
The  prince  seized  the  reins  of  the  steed  of  Tenderos,  but  the 
faithful  animal,  as  though  he  knew  him  to  be  the  foe  of  his 
late  lord,  reared  and  plunged  and  refused  to  let  him  mount. 
The  prince,  however,  used  him  as  a  shield  to  ward  off  the 
press  of  foes,  while  with  his  sword  he  defended  himself 
against  those  in  front  of  him.  Taric  ben  Zeyad  arrived  at 


Ce$ei)d8  of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spair?  455 

the  scene  of  conflict,  and  paused  for  a  moment  in  admiration 
of  the  surpassing  prowess  of  the  prince ;  recollecting,  how- 
ever, that  his  fall  would  be  a  death  blow  to  his  army,  he 
spurred  upon  him  and  wounded  him  severely  with  his  scim- 
iter.  Before  he  could  repeat  his  blow,  Theodomir  led  up 
a  body  of  Christian  cavaliers  to  the  rescue,  and  Taric  was 
parted  from  his  prey  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight.  The  prince 
sank  to  the  earth,  covered  with  wounds  and  exhausted  by  the 
loss  of  blood.  A  faithful  page  drew  him  from  under  the  hoofs 
of  the  horses,  and,  aided  by  a  veteran  soldier,  an  ancient  vas- 
sal of  Ataulpho,  conveyed  him  to  a  short  distance  from  the 
scene  of  battle,  by  the  side  of  a  small  stream  that  gushed  out 
from  among  rocks.  They  stanched  the  blood  that  flowed  from 
his  wounds,  and  washed  the  dust  from  his  face,  and  lay  him 
beside  the  fountain.  The  page  sat  at  his  head  and  supported 
it  on  his  knees,  and  the  veteran  stood  at  his  feet,  with  his 
brow  bent  and  his  eyes  full  of  sorrow.  The  prince  gradually 
revived  and  opened  his  eyes.  "How  fares  the  battle?"  said 
he.  "The  struggle  is  hard,"  replied  the  soldier,  "but  the 
day  may  yet  be  ours. ' ' 

The  prince  felt  that  the  hour  of  his  death  was  at  hand  and 
ordered  that  they  should  aid  him  to  rise  upon  his  knees. 
They  supported  him  between  them,  and  he  prayed  fervently 
for  a  short  time,  when,  finding  his  strength  declining,  he 
beckoned  the  veteran  to  sit  down  beside  him  on  the  rock. 
Continuing  to  kneel,  he  confessed  himself,  to  that  ancient 
soldier,  having  no  priest  or  friar  to  perform  that  office  in  this 
hour  of  extremity.  When  he  had  so  done,  he  sunk  again 
upon  the  earth  and  .pressed  it  with  his  lips,  as  if  he  would 
take  a  fond  farewell  of  his  beloved  country.  The  page  would 
then  have  raised  his  head,  but  found  that  his  lord  had  yielded 
up  the  ghost. 

A  number  of  Arab  warriors,  who  came  to  the  fountain  to 
slake  their  thirst,  cut  off  the  head  of  the  prince  and  bore  it  in 
triumph  to  Taric,  crying,  "Behold  the  head  of  the  Christian 
leader."  Taric  immediately  ordered  that  the  head  should  be 
put  upon  the  end  of  a  lance,  together  with  the  surcoat  of  the 


456  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi? 

prince,  and  borne  about  the  field  of  battle,  with  the  sound  of 
trumpets,  atabals  and  cymbals. 

When  the  Christians  beheld  the  surcoat,  and  knew  the 
features  of  the  prince,  they  were  struck  with  horror,  and 
heart  and  hand  failed  them.  Theodomir  endeavored  in  vain 
to  rally  them ;  they  threw  by  their  weapons  and  fled ;  and 
they  continued  to  fly,  and  the  enemy  to  pursue  and  slay  them, 
until  the  darkness  of  the  night.  The  Moslems  then  returned 
and  plundered  the  Christian  camp,  where  they  found  abun- 
dant spoil. 

CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

TERROR  OF  THE  COUNTRY — RODERICK  ROUSES  HIMSELF 
TO  ARMS 

THE  scattered  fugitives  of  the  Christian  army  spread  ter- 
ror throughout  the  land.  The  inhabitants  of  the  towns  and 
villages  gathered  around  them  as  they  applied  at  their  gates 
for  food,  or  lay  themselves  down  faint  and  wounded  beside 
the  public  fountains.  When  they  related  the  tale  of  their  de- 
feat, old  men  shook  their  heads  and  groaned,  and  the  women 
uttered  cries  and  lamentations.  So  strange  and  unlooked- 
for  a  calamity  filled  them  with  consternation  and  despair;  for 
it  was  long  since  the  alarm  of  war  had  sounded  in  their  land, 
and  this  was  a  warfare  that  carried  chains  and  slavery  and 
all  kinds  of  horrors  in  its  train. 

Don  Roderick  was  seated  with  his  beauteous  queen, 
Exilona,  in  the  royal  palace  which  crowned  the  rocky  sum- 
mit of  Toledo,  when  the  bearer  of  ill-tidings  came  galloping 
over  the  bridge  of  the  Tagus.  "What  tidings  from  the 
army?"  demanded  the  king,  as  the  panting  messenger  was 
brought  into  his  presence.  "Tidings  of  great  woe,"  ex- 
claimed the  soldier.  "The  prince  has  fallen  in  battle.  I 
saw  his  head  and  surcoat  upon  a  Moorish  lance  and  the  army 
was  overthrown  and  fled." 

At  hearing  these  words,  Roderick  covered  his  face  with 


Ce<Jei>ds  of  tl?e  9oi?quest  of  Spaii?  457 

his  hands,  and  for  some  time  sat  in  silence ;  and  all  his  cour- 
tiers stood  mute  and  aghast,  and  no  one  dared  to  speak  a 
word.  In  that  awful  space  of  time  passed  before  his  thoughts 
all  his  errors  and  his  crimes,  and  all  the  evils  that  had  been 
predicted  in  the  necromantic  tower.  His  mind  was  filled 
with  horror  and  confusion,  for  the  hour  of  his  destruction 
seemed  at  hand ;  but  he  subdued  his  agitation  by  his  strong 
and  haughty  spirit ;  and  when  he  uncovered  his  face  no  one 
could  read  on  his  brow  the  trouble  and  agony  of  his  heart. 
Still  every  hour  brought  fresh  tidings  of  disaster.  Messenger 
after  messenger  came  spurring  into  the  city,  distracting  it 
with  new  alarms.  The  infidels,  they  said,  were  strengthening 
themselves  in  the  land :  host  after  host  were  pouring  in  from 
Africa;  the  seaboard  of  Andalusia  glittered  with  spears  and 
scimiters.  Bands  of  turbaned  horsemen  had  overrun  the 
plains  of  Sidonia,  even  to  the  banks  of  the  Guadiana.  Fields 
were  laid  waste,  towns  and  cities  plundered,  the  inhabitants 
carried  into  captivity,  and  the  whole  country  lay  in  smoking 
desolation. 

Roderick  heard  all  these  tidings  with  an  undaunted 
aspect,  nor  did  he  ever  again  betray  sign  of  consternation; 
but  the  anxiety  of  his  soul  was  evident  in  his  warlike  prepara- 
tions. He  issued  orders  that  every  noble  and  prelate  of  his 
kingdom  should  put  himself  at  the  head  of  his  retainers  and 
take  the  field,  and  that  every  man  capable  of  bearing  arms 
should  hasten  to  his  standard,  bringing  whatever  horse  and 
mule  and  weapon  he  possessed ;  and  he  appointed  the  plain 
of  Cordova  for  the  place  where  the  army  was  to  assemble. 
Throwing  by,  then,  all  the  trappings  of  his  late  slothful  and 
voluptuous  life,  and  arming  himself  for  warlike  action,  he 
departed  from  Toledo  at  the  head  of  his  guard,  composed  of 
the  flower  of  the  youthful  nobility.  His  queen,  Exilona, 
accompanied  him,  for  she  craved  permission  to  remain  in  one 
of  the  cities  of  Andalusia,  that  she  might  be  near  her  lord  in 
this  time  of  peril. 

Among  the  first  who  appeared  to  hail  the  arrival  of  the 
king  at  Cordova  was  the  Bishop  Oppas,  the  secret  partisan  of 
*  *  *20  VOL.  I. 


458  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir?<$toQ  Irvir?$ 

the  traitor  Julian.  He  brought  with  him  his  two  nephews, 
Evan  and  Siseburto,  the  sons  of  the  late  king  Witiza,  and  a 
great  host  of  vassals  and  retainers,  all  well  armed  and 
appointed ;  for  they  had  been  furnished  by  Count  Julian  with 
a  part  of  the  arms  sent  by  the  king  to  Africa.  The  bishop 
was  smooth  of  tongue,  and  profound  in  his  hypocrisy;  his 
pretended  zeal  and  devotion,  and  the  horror  with  which  he 
spoke  of  the  treachery  of  his  kinsman,  imposed  upon  the 
credulous  spirit  of  the  king,  and  he  was  readily  admitted  into 
his  most  secret  councils. 

The  alarm  of  the  infidel  invasion  had  spread  throughout 
the  land,  and  roused  the  Gothic  valor  of  the  inhabitants.  On 
receiving  the  orders  of  Roderick,  every  town  and  hamlet, 
every  mountain  and  valley,  had  sent  forth  its  fighting  men, 
and  the  whole  country  was  on  the  march  toward  Andalusia. 
In  a  little  while  there  were  gathered  together,  on  the  plain  of 
Cordova,  near  fifty  thousand  horsemen  and  a  countless  host 
of  foot-soldiers.  The  Gothic  nobles  appeared  in  burnished 
armor,  curiously  inlaid  and  adorned,  with  chains  and  jewels 
of  gold,  and  ornaments  of  precious  stones,  and  silken  scarfs, 
and  surcoats  of  brocade,  or  velvet  richly  embroidered;  be- 
traying the  luxury  and  ostentation  into  which  they  had 
declined  from  the  iron  hardihood  of  their  warlike  sires.  As 
to  the  common  people,  some  had  lances  and  shields  and 
swords  and  crossbows,  but  the  greater  part  were  unarmed, 
or  provided  merely  with  slings  and  clubs  studded  with  nails, 
and  with  the  iron  implements  of  husbandry;  and  many  had 
made  shields  for  themselves  from  the  doors  and  windows  of 
their  habitations.  They  were  a  prodigious  host,  and  ap- 
peared, say  the  Arabian  chroniclers,  like  an  agitated  sea, 
but,  though  brave  in  spirit,  they  possessed  no  knowledge  of 
warlike  art,  and  were  ineffectual  through  lack  of  arms  and 
discipline. 

Several  of  the  most  ancient  and  experienced  cavaliers, 
beholding  the  state  of  the  army,  advised  Don  Roderick  to 
await  the  arrival  of  more  regular  troops,  which  were  stationed 
in  Iberia,  Cantabria,  and  Gallia  Gothica;  but  this  counsel 


of  tl?e  <?or>quest  of  Spaii?  459 

was  strenuously  opposed  by  the  Bishop  Oppas,  who  urged 
the  king  to  march  immediately  against  the  infidels.  "As 
yet,"  said  he,  "their  number  is  but  limited,  but  every  day 
new  hosts  arrive  like  flocks  of  locusts  from  Africa.  They 
will  augment  faster  than  we;  they  are  living,  too,  at  our 
expense,  and,  while  we  pause,  both  armies  are  consuming  the 
substance  of  the  land." 

King  Roderick  listened  to  the  crafty  counsel  of  the  bishop, 
and  determined  to  advance  without  delay.  He  mounted  his 
war-horse,  Orelia,  and  rode  among  his  troops  assembled  on 
that  spacious  plain,  and  wherever  he  appeared  he  was  re- 
ceived with  acclamations ;  for  nothing  so  arouses  the  spirit  of 
the  soldier  as  to  behold  his  sovereign  in  arms.  He  addressed 
them  in  words  calculated  to  touch  their  hearts  and  animate 
their  courage.  "The  Saracens,"  said  he,  "are  ravaging  our 
land,  and  their  object  is  our  conquest.  Should  they  prevail, 
your  very  existence  as  a  nation  is  at  an  end.  They  will 
overturn  your  altars;  trample  on  the  cross;  lay  waste  your 
cities;  carry  off  your  wives  and  daughters,  and  doom  your- 
selves and  sons  to  hard  and  cruel  slavery.  No  safety  remains 
for  you  but  in  the  prowess  of  your  arms.  For  my  own  part, 
as  I  am  your  king,  so  will  I  be  your  leader,  and  will  be  the 
foremost  to  encounter  every  toil  and  danger." 

The  soldiery  answered  their  monarch  with  loud  acclama- 
tions, and  solemnly  pledged  themselves  to  fight  to  the  last 
gasp  in  defense  of  their  country  and  their  faith.  The  king 
then  arranged  the  order  of  their  march ;  all  those  who  were 
armed  with  cuirasses  and  coats  of  mail  were  placed  in  the 
front  and  rear;  the  center  of  the  army  was  composed  of  a 
promiscuous  throng,  without  body  armor  and  but  scantily 
provided  with  weapons. 

When  they  were  about  to  march,  the  king  called  to  him  a 
noble  cavalier  named  Ramiro,  and  delivering  him  the  royal 
standard,  charged  him  to  guard  it  well  for  the  honor  of 
Spain ;  scarcely,  however,  had  the  good  knight  received  it  in 
his  hand,  when  he  fell  dead  from  his  horse,  and  the  staff  of 
the  standard  was  broken  in  twain.  Many  ancient  courtiers 


460  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ip«$tor?  lruir;<$ 

who  were  present  looked  upon  this  as  an  evil  omen,  and 
counseled  the  king  not  to  set  forward  on  his  march  that  day ; 
but,  disregarding  all  auguries  and  portents,  he  ordered  the 
royal  banner  to  be  put  upon  a  lance  and  gave  it  in  charge  of 
another  standard  bearer :  then  commanding  the  trumpets  to 
be  sounded,  he  departed  at  the  head  of  his  host  to  seek  the 
enemy. 

The  field  where  this  great  army  assembled  was  called, 
from  the  solemn  pledge  given  by  the  nobles  and  the  soldierj^, 
El  campo  de  la  verdad;  or,  The  field  of  Truth ;  a  name,  says 
the  sage  chronicler  Abulcasim,  which  it  bears  even  to  the 
present  day.* 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

MARCH  OF  THE  GOTHIC  ARMY— ENCAMPMENT  ON  THE  BANKS 

OF  THE  GUADALETE — MYSTERIOUS  PREDICTIONS  OF  A 

PALMER — CONDUCT  OF  PELISTES  THEREUPON 

THE  hopes  of  Andalusia  revived  as  this  mighty  host 
stretched  in  lengthening  lines  along  its  fertile  plains ;  from 
morn  until  night  it  continued  to  pour  along,  with  sound  of 
drum  and  trumpet;  it  was  led  on  by  the  proudest  nobles  and 
bravest  cavaliers  in  the  land,  and,  had  it  possessed  arms  and 
discipline,  might  have  undertaken  the  conquest  of  the  world. 

After  a  few  days'  march,  Don  Roderick  arrived  in  sight 
of  the  Moslem  army,  encamped  on  the  banks  of  the  Guada- 
lete,f  where  that  beautiful  stream  winds  through  the  fertile 
land  of  Xeres.  The  infidel  host  was  far  inferior  in  number 
to  the  Christians,  but  then  it  was  composed  of  hardy  and 
dexterous  troops,  seasoned  to  war  and  admirably  armed. 
The  camp  shone  gloriously  in  the  setting  sun,  and  resounded 
with  the  clash  of  cymbal,  the  note  of  the  trumpet,  and 
the  neighing  of  fiery  Arabian  steeds.  There  were  swarthy 

*  La  Perdida  de  Espana,  cap.  9.     Bleda,  Lib.  2,  c.  8. 
t  This  name  was  given  to  it  subsequently  by  the  Arabs.     It  signifies 
the  River  of  Death.    Vide  Pedruza,  Hist.  Granad,  p.  3,  c.  1. 


Ce<$ei?ds  of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spall?  461 

troops  from  every  nation  of  the  African  coast,  together  with 
legions  from  Syria  and  Egypt,  while  the  light  Bedouins  were 
careering  about  the  adjacent  plain.  What  grieved  and  in- 
censed the  spirits  of  the  Christian  warriors,  however,  was  to 
behold,  a  little  apart  from  the  Moslem  host,  an  encampment 
of  Spanish  cavaliers,  with  the  banner  of  Count  Julian  waving 
above  their  tents.  They  were  ten  thousand  in  number, 
valiant  and  hardy  men,  the  most  experienced  of  Spanish 
soldiery,  most  of  them  having  served  hi  the  African  wars; 
they  were  well  armed  and  appointed  also,  with  the  weapons 
of  which  the  count  had  beguiled  his  sovereign ;  and  it  was  a 
grievous  sight  to  behold  such  good  soldiers  arrayed  against 
their  country  and  their  faith. 

The  Christians  pitched  their  tents  about  the  hour  of  ves- 
pers, at  a  short  league  distant  from  the  enemy,  and  remained 
gazing  with  anxiety  and  awe  upon  this  barbaric  host  that 
had  caused  such  terror  and  desolation  in  the  land:  for  the 
first  sight  of  a  hostile  encampment  in  a  country  disused  to 
war  is  terrible  to  the  newly  enlisted  soldier.  A  marvelous 
occurrence  is  recorded  by  the  Arabian  chroniclers  as  having 
taken  place  in  the  Christian  camp,  but  discreet  Spanish 
writers  relate  it  with  much  modification,  and  consider  it  a 
stratagem  of  the  wily  Bishop  Oppas,  to  sound  the  loyalty  of 
the  Christian  cavaliers. 

As  several  leaders  of  the  army  were  seated  with  the 
bishop  in  his  tent,  conversing  on  the  dubious  fortunes  of  the 
approaching  contest,  an  ancient  pilgrim  appeared  at  the  en- 
trance. He  was  bowed  down  with  years,  his  snowy  beard 
descended  to  his  girdle,  and  he  supported  his  tottering  steps 
with  a  palmer's  staff.  The  cavaliers  rose  and  received  him  • 
with  great  reverence  as  he  advanced  within  the  tent.  Hold- 
ing up  his  withered  hand,  "Woe,  woe  to  Spain!"  exclaimed 
he,  "for  the  vial  of  the  wrath  of  heaven  is  about  to  be  poured 
out.  Listen,  warriors,  and  take  warning.  Four  months 
since,  having  performed  my  pilgrimage  to  the  sepulcher  of 
our  Lord  in  Palestine,  I  was  on  my  return  toward  my  native 
land.  Wearied  and  way-worn,  I  lay  down  one  night  to  sleep 


462  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii><$toi?  Irvir;<$ 

beneath  a  palm  tree,  by  the  side  of  a  fountain,  when  I  was 
awakened  by  a  voice  saying  unto  me,  in  soft  accents,  'Son 
of  sorrow,  why  sleepest  thou?'  I  opened  my  eyes  and  beheld 
one  of  fair  and  beauteous  countenance,  in  shining  apparel, 
and  with  glorious  wings,  standing  by  the  f  ountain ;  and  I 
said,  'Who  art  thou,  who  callest  upon  me  in  this  deep  hour 
of  the  night?' 

"  'Fear  not,'  replied  the  stranger,  'I  am  an  angel  from 
heaven,  sent  to  reveal  unto  thee  the  fate  of  thy  country. 
Behold,  the  sins  of  Roderick  have  come  up  before  God,  and 
his  anger  is  kindled  against  him,  and  he  has  given  him  up  to 
be  invaded  and  destroyed.  Hasten  then  to  Spain  and  seek 
the  camp  of  thy  countrymen.  Warn  them  that  such  only 
shall  be  saved  as  shall  abandon  Roderick ;  but  those  who 
adhere  to  him  shall  share  his  punishment  and  shall  fall 
under  the  sword  of  the  invader. '  ' 

The  pilgrim  ceased  and  passed  forth  from  the  lent ;  certain 
of  the  cavaliers  followed  him  to  detain  him,  that  they  might 
converse  further  with  him  about  these  matters,  but  he  was  no- 
where to  be  found.  The  sentinel  before  the  tent  said,  "I  saw 
no  one  come  forth,  but  it  was  as  if  a  blast  of  wind  passed  by 
me,  and  there  was  a  rustling  as  of  dry  leaves." 

The  cavaliers  remained  looking  upon  each  other  with 
astonishment.  The  Bishop  Oppas  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ground  and  shadowed  by  his  overhanging  brow. 
At  length,  breaking  silence,  in  a  low  and  faltering  voice: 
"Doubtless,"  said  he,  "this  message  is  from  God;  and  since 
He  has  taken  compassion  upon  us  and  given  us  notice  of  His 
impending  judgment,  it  behooves  us  to  hold  grave  council, 
and  determine  how  best  we  may  accomplish  His  will  and 
avert  His  displeasure." 

The  chiefs  still  remained  silent  as  men  confounded. 
Among  them  was  a  veteran  noble  named  Pelistes.  He  had 
distinguished  himself  in  the  African  wars,  fighting  side  by 
side  with  Count  Julian;  but  the  latter  had  never  dared 
to  tamper  with  his  faith,  for  he  knew  his  stern  integrity. 
Pelistes  had  brought  with  him  to  the  camp  his  only  son,  who 


Ce<$er)ds  of  tl?e  <?or>que»t  of  Spaii?  463 

had  never  drawn  a  sword  except  in  tourney.  When  the 
young  man  saw  that  the  veterans  held  their  peace,  the  blood 
mantled  in  his  cheek,  and,  overcoming  his  modesty,  he  broke 
forth  with  a  generous  warmth:  "I  know  not,  cavaliers,"  said 
he,  "what  is  passing  in  your  minds,  but  I  believe  this  pilgrim 
to  be  an  envoy  from  the  devil ;  for  none  else  could  have  given 
such  dastard  and  perfidious  counsel.  For  my  own  part,  I 
stand  ready  to  defend  my  king,  my  country  and  my  faith ;  I 
know  no  higher  duty  than  this,  and  if  God  thinks  fit  to  strike 
me  dead  in  the  performance  of  it,  His  sovereign  will  be  done !" 
When  the  young  man  had  risen  to  speak,  his  father  had 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  him  with  a  grave  and  stern  demeanor, 
leaning  upon  a  two-handed  sword.  As  soon  as  the  youth  had 
finished,  Pelistes  embraced  him  with  a  father's  fondness. 
"Thou  hast  spoken  well,  my  son,"  said  he;  "if  I  held  my 
peace  at  the  counsel  of  this  losel  pilgrim,  it  was  but  to  hear 
thy  opinion  and  to  learn  whether  thou  wert  worthy  of  thy 
lineage  and  of  the  training  I  had  given  thee.  Hadst  thou 
counseled  otherwise  than  thou  hast  done,  hadst  thou  shown 
thyself  craven  and  disloyal;  so  help  me  God,  I  would  have 
struck  off  thy  head  with  this  weapon  which  I  hold  in  my 
hand.  But  thou  hast  counseled  like  a  loyal  and  a  Christian 
knight,  and  I  thank  God  for  having  given  me  a  son  worthy 
to  perpetuate  the  honors  of  my  line.  As  to  this  pilgrim,  be 
he  saint  or  be  he  devil,  I  care  not;  this  much  I  promise,  that 
if  I  am  to  die  in  defense  of  my  country  and  my  king,  my  life 
shall  be  a  costly  purchase  to  the  foe.  Let  each  man  make  the 
same  resolve,  and  I  trust  we  shall  yet  prove  the  pilgrim  a 
lying  prophet."  The  words  of  Pelistes  roused  the  spirits  of 
many -of  the  cavaliers;  others,  however,  remained  full  of 
anxious  foreboding,  and  when  this  fearful  prophecy  was 
rumored  about  the  camp,  as  it  presently  was  by  the  emissaries 
of  the  bishop,  it  spread  awe  and  dismay  among  the  soldiery. 


464  U/orKs  of  U/aEl?ir)$toi) 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

SKIRMISHING    OP    THE    ARMIES— PELISTES    AND     HIS     SON— 
PELISTES    AND    THE    BISHOP 

ON  the  following  day  the  two  armies  remained  regarding 
each  other  with  wary  but  menacing  aspect.  About  noontide 
King  Roderick  sent  forth  a  chosen  force  of  five  hundred  horse 
and  two  hundred  foot,  the  best  armed  of  his  host,  to  skirmish 
with  the  enemy,  that,  by  gaining  some  partial  advantage, 
they  might  raise  the  spirits  of  the  army.  They  were  led  on 
by  Theodomir,  the  same  Gothic  noble  who  had  signalized 
himself  by  first  opposing  the  invasion  of  the  Moslems. 

The  Christian  squadrons  paraded  with  flying  pennons  in 
the  valley  which  lay  between  the  armies.  The  Arabs  were 
not  slow  in  answering  their  defiance.  A  large  body  of  horse- 
men sallied  forth  to  the  encounter,  together  with  three  hun- 
dred of  the  followers  of  Count  Julian.  There  was  hot 
skirmishing  about  the  field  and  on  the  banks  of  the  river; 
many  gallant  feats  were  displayed  on  either  side,  and  many 
valiant  warriors  were  slain.  As  the  night  closed  in,  the 
trumpets  from  either  camp  summoned  the  troops  to  retire 
from  the  combat.  In  this  day's  action  the  Christians  suffered 
greatly  in  the  loss  of  their  distinguished  cavaliers ;  for  it  is 
the  noblest  spirits  who  venture  most,  and  lay  themselves  open 
to  danger ;  and  the  Moslem  soldiers  had  instructions  to  single 
out  the  leaders  of  the  adverse  host.  All  this  is  said  to  have 
been  devised  by  the  perfidious  Bishop  Oppas,  who  had  -secret 
communications  with  the  enemy,  while  he  influenced  the 
councils  of  the  king;  and  who  trusted  that  by  this  skirmish- 
ing warfare  the  power  of  the  Christian  troops  would  be  cut 
off,  and  the  rest  disheartened. 

On  the  following  morning  a  larger  force  was  ordered  out 
to  skirmish,  and  such  of  the  soldiery  as  were  unarmed  were 
commanded  to  stand  ready  to  seize  the  horses  and  strip  off 


Ce<$epds  of  tl?e  <?opqu«8t  of  Spain;  405 

the  armor  of  the  killed  and  wounded.  Among  the  most  illus- 
trious of  the  warriors  who  fought  that  day  was  Pelistes,  the 
Gothic  noble  who  had  so  sternly  checked  the  tongue  of  the 
Bishop  Oppas.  He  led  to  the  field  a  large  body  of  his  own 
vassals  and  retainers,  and  of  cavaliers  trained  up  in  his 
house,  who  had  followed  him  to  the  wars  in  Africa,  and 
who  looked  up  to  him  more  as  a  father  than  a  chieftain. 
Beside  him  was  his  only  son,  who  now  for  the  first  time  was 
fleshing  his  sword  in  battle.  The  conflict  that  day  was  more 
general  and  bloody  than  the  day  preceding;  the  slaughter  of 
the  Christian  warriors  was  immense  from  their  lack  of  de- 
fensive armor ;  and  as  nothing  could  prevent  the  flower  of 
the  Gothic  chivalry  from  spurring  to  the  combat,  the  field 
was  strewed  with  the  bodies  of  the  youthful  nobles.  None 
suffered  more,  however,  than  the  warriors  of  Pelistes.  Their 
leader  himself  was  bold  and  hardy,  and  prone  to  expose  him- 
self to  danger;  but  years  and  experience  had  moderated  his 
early  fire ;  his  son,  however,  was  eager  to  distinguish  himself 
in  this,  his  first  essay,  and  rushed  with  impetuous  ardor  into 
the  hottest  of  the  battle.  In  vain  his  father  called  to  caution 
him ;  he  was  ever  in  the  advance,  and  seemed  unconscious  of 
the  perils  that  surrounded  him.  The  cavaliers  and  vassals  of 
his  father  followed  him  with  devoted  zeal,  and  many  of  them 
paid  for  their  loyalty  with  their  lives.  When  the  trumpets 
sounded  in  the  evening  for  retreat,  the  troops  of  Pelistes  were 
the  last  to  reach  the  camp.  They  came  slowly  and  mourn- 
fully and  much  decreased  in  number.  Their  veteran  com- 
mander was  seated  on  his  war-horse,  but  the  blood  trickled 
from  the  greaves  of  his  armor.  His  valiant  son  was  borne 
on  the  shields  of  his  vassals ;  when  they  laid  him  on  the  earth 
near  to  where  the  king  was  standing,  they  found  that  the 
heroic  youth  had  expired  of  his  wounds.  The  cavaliers  sur- 
rounded the  body  and  gave  utterance  to  their  grief,  but  the 
father  restrained  his  agony  and  looked  on  with  the  stern 
resignation  of  a  soldier. 

Don  Roderick  surveyed  the  field  of  battle  with  a  rueful 
eye,  for  it  was  covered  with  the  mangled  bodies  of  his  most 


466  U/orKs  of  U/asl?iQ$toi) 

illustrious  warriors ;  he  saw,  too,  with  anxiety,  that  the  com- 
mon people,  unused  to  war  and  unsustained  by  discipline, 
were  harassed  by  incessant  toils  and  dangers,  and  were 
cooling  in  their  zeal  and  courage. 

The  crafty  Bishop  Oppas  marked  the  internal  trouble  of 
the  king  and  thought  a  favorable  moment  had  arrived  to 
sway  him  to  his  purpose.  He  called  to  his  mind  the  various 
portents  and  prophecies  which  had  forerun  their  present 
danger.  "Let  not  my  lord  the  king,"  said  he,  "make  light 
of  these  mysterious  revelations,  which  appear  to  be  so  disas- 
trously fulfilling.  The  hand  of  heaven  appears  to  be  against 
us.  Destruction  is  impending  over  our  heads.  Our  troops 
are  rude  and  unskillful;  but  slightly  armed,  and  much  cast 
down  in  spirit.  Better  is  it  that  we  should  make  a  treaty 
with  the  enemy,  and,  by  granting  part  of  his  demands,  pre- 
vent the  utter  ruin  of  our  country.  If  such  counsel  be  ac- 
ceptable to  my  lord  the  king,  I  stand  ready  to  depart  upon  an 
embassy  to  the  Moslem  camp." 

Upon  hearing  these  words,  Pelistes,  who  had  stood  in 
mournful  silence  regarding  the  dead  body  of  his  son,  burst 
forth  with  honest  indignation.  "By  this  good  sword,"  said 
he,  "the  man  who  yields  such  dastard  counsel  deserves  death 
from  the  hand  of  his  countryman  rather  than  from  the  foe; 
and,  were  it  not  for  the  presence  of  the  king,  may  I  forfeit 
salvation  if  I  would  not  strike  him  dead  upon  the  spot." 

The  bishop  turned  an  eye  of  venom  upon  Pelistes.  "My 
lord,"  said  he,  "I,  too,  bear  a  weapon,  and  know  how  to 
wield  it.  Were  the  king  not  present,  you  would  not  dare  to 
menace,  nor  should  you  advance  one  step  without  my  hasten- 
ing to  meet  you." 

The  king  interposed  between  the  jarring  nobles,  and 
rebuked  the  impetuosity  of  Pelistes,  but  at  the  same  time 
rejected  the  counsel  of  the  bishop.  "The  event  of  this  con- 
flict," said  he,  "is  in  the  hand  of  God;  but  never  shall  my 
sword  return  to  its  scabbard  while  an  infidel  invader  remains 
within  the  land." 

He  then  held  a  council  with  his  captains,  and  it  was  de- 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  fcl?e  <?or;que8t  of  Spafi)  467 

termined  to  offer  the  enemy  general  battle  on  the  following 
day.  A  herald  was  dispatched  defying  Taric  ben  Zeyad  to 
the  contest,  and  the  defiance  was  gladly  accepted  by  the 
Moslem  chieftain.*  Don  Roderick  then  formed  the  plan  of 
action,  and  assigned  to  each  commander  his  several  station, 
after  which  he  dismissed  his  officers,  and  each  one  sought  his 
tent,  to  prepare  by  diligence  or  repose  for  the  next  day's 
eventful  contest. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

TRAITOROUS  MESSAGE  OF  COUNT  JULIAN 

TARIC  BEN  ZEYAD  had  been  surprised  by  the  valor  of  the 
Christian  cavaliers  in  the  recent  battles,  and  at  the  number 
and  apparent  devotion  of  the  troops  which  accompanied  the 
king  to  the  field.  The  confident  defiance  of  Don  Roderick 
increased  his  surprise.  When  the  herald  had  retired,  he 
turned  an  eye  of  suspicion  on  Count  Julian.  "Thou  hast 
represented  thy  countrymen,"  said  he,  "as  sunk  in  effeminacy 
and  lost  to  all  generous  impulse;  yet  I  find  them  fighting 
with  the  courage  and  the  strength  of  lions.  Thou  hast  repre- 
sented thy  king  as  detested  by  his  subjects  and  surrounded 
by  secret  treason,  but  I  behold  his  tents  whitening  the  hills 
and  dales,  while  thousands  are  hourly  flocking  to  his  stand- 
ard. Woe  unto  thee  if  thou  hast  dealt  deceitfully  with  us,  or 
betrayed  us  with  guileful  words." 

Don  Julian  retired  to  his  tent  in  great  trouble  of  mind, 
and  fear  came  upon  him  that  the  Bishop  Oppas  might  play 
him  false ;  for  it  is  the  lot  of  traitors  ever  to  distrust  each 
other.  He  called  to  him  the  same  page  who  had  brought 
him  the  letter  from  Florinda,  revealing  the  story  of  her 
dishonor. 

"Thou  knowest,  my  trusty  page,"  said  he,  "that  I  have 
reared  thee  in  my  household  and  cherished  thee  above  all  thy 

*  Bleda.  Cronica. 


468  U/ork[8  of 

companions.  If  thou  hast  loyalty  and  affection  for  thy  lord, 
now  is  the  time  to  serve  him.  Hie  thee  to  the  Christian 
camp,  and  find  thy  way  to  the  tent  of  the  Bishop  Oppas.  If 
any  one  ask  thee  who  thou  art,  tell  them  thou  art  of  the  house- 
hold of  the  bishop  and  bearer  of  missives  from  Cordova. 
When  thou  art  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the  bishop,  show 
him  this  ring,  and  he  will  commune  with  thee  in  secret. 
Then  tell  him  Count  Julian  greets  him  as  a  brother,  and 
demands  how  the  wrongs  of  his  daughter  Florinda  are  to  be 
redressed.  Mark  well  his  reply,  and  bring  it  word  for  word. 
Have  thy  lips  closed,  but  thine  eyes  and  ears  open;  and  ob- 
serve everything  of  note  in  the  camp  of  the  king.  So,  speed 
thee  on  thy  errand — away,  away!" 

The  page  hastened  to  saddle  a  Barbary  steed,  fleet  as  the 
wind,  and  of  a  jet  black  color,  so  as  not  to  be  easily  discern- 
ible in  the  night.  He  girded  on  a  sword  and  dagger,  slung 
an  Arab  bow  with  a  quiver  of  arrows  at  his  side,  and  a 
buckler  at  his  shoulder.  Issuing  out  of  the  camp,  he  sought 
the  banks  of  the  Guadalete,  and  proceeded  silently  along  its 
stream,  which  reflected  the  distant  fires  of  the  Christian 
camp.  As  he  passed  by  the  place  which  had  been  the  scene 
of  the  recent  conflict,  he  heard,  from  time  to  time,  the  groan 
of  some  expiring  warrior  who  had  crawled  among  the  reeds 
on  the  margin  of  the  river;  and  sometimes  his  steed  stepped 
cautiously  over  the  mangled  bodies  of  the  slain. '  The  young 
page  was  unused  to  the  sights  of  war  and  his  heart  beat  quick 
within  him.  He  was  hailed  by  the  sentinels  as  he  approached 
the  Christian  camp,  and,  on  giving  the  reply  taught  him  by 
Count  Julian,  was  conducted  to  the  tent  of  the  Bishop  Oppas. 

The  bishop  had  not  yet  retired  to  his  couch.  When  he 
beheld  the  ring  of  Count  Julian,  and  heard  the  words  of  his 
message,  he  saw  that  the  page  was  one  in  whom  he  might 
confide.  "Hasten  back  to  thy  lord,"  said  he,  "and  tell  him 
to  have  faith  in  me  and  all  shall  go  well.  As  yet  I  have 
kept  my  troops  out  of  the  combat.  They  are  all  fresh,  well 
armed,  and  well  appointed.  The  king  has  confided  to  my- 
self, aided  by  the  princes  Evan  and  Siseburto,  the  command 


of  tfoe  <?oi>quest  of  Spaii?  469 

of  a  wing  of  the  army.  To-morrow,  at  the  hour  of  noon, 
when  both  armies  are  in  the  heat  of  action,  we  will  pass  over 
with  our  forces  to  the  Moslems.  But  I  claim  the  compact 
made  with  Taric  ben  Zeyad,  that  my  nephews  be  placed  in 
dominion  over  Spain,  and  tributary  only  to  the  Caliph  of 
Damascus. ' '  With  this  traitorous  message  the  page  departed. 
He  led  his  black  steed  by  the  bridle  to  present  less  mark  for 
observation,  as  he  went  stumbling  along  near  the  expiring 
fires  of  the  camp.  On  passing  the  last  outpost,  when  the 
guards  were  half  slumbering  on  their  arms,  he  was  over- 
heard and  summoned,  but  leaped  lightly  into  the  saddle  and 
put  spurs  to  his  steed.  An  arrow  whistled  by  his  ear,  and 
two  more  stuck  in  the  target  which  he  had  thrown  upon  his 
back.  The  clatter  of  swift  hoofs  echoed  behind  him,  but  he 
had  learned  of  the  Arabs  to  fight  and  fly.  Plucking  a  shaft 
from  his  quiver,  and  turning  and  rising  hi  his  stirrups  as  his 
courser  galloped  at  full  speed,  he  drew  the  arrow  to  the  head 
and  launched  it  at  his  pursuer.  The  twang  of  the  bow-string 
was  followed  by  the  crash  of  armor,  and  a  deep  groan,  as  the 
horseman  tumbled  to  the  earth.  The  page  pursued  his  course 
without  further  molestation,  and  arrived  at  the  Moslem  camp 
before  the  break  of  day. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

LAST     DAY     OF     THE     BATTLE 

A  LIGHT  had  burned  throughout  the  night  in  the  tent  of 
the  king  and  anxious  thoughts  and  dismal  visions  troubled 
his  repose.  If  he  fell  into  a  slumber,  he  beheld  in  his  dreams 
the  shadowy  phantoms  of  the  necromantic  tower,  or  the  in- 
jured Florinda,  pale  and  disheveled,  imprecating  the  ven- 
geance of  heaven  upon  his  head.  In  the  mid-watches  of  the 
night,  when  all  was  silent  except  the  footsteps  of  the  sentinel, 
pacing  before  his  tent,  the  king  rose  from  his  couch,  and 
walking  forth  looked  thoughtfully  upon  the  martial  scena 


470  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi?  Irvii)$ 

before  him.  The  pale  crescent  of  the  moon  hung  over  the 
Moorish  camp,  and  dimly  lighted  up  the  windings  of  the 
Guadalete.  The  heart  of  the  king  was  heavy  and  oppressed ; 
but  he  felt  only  for  himself,  says  Antonio  Agapida;  he 
thought  nothing  of  the  perils  impending  over  the  thousands 
of  devoted  subjects  in  the  camp  below  him;  sleeping,  as  it 
were,  on  the  margin  of  their  graves.  The  faint  clatter  of 
distant  hoofs,  as  if  in  rapid  flight,  reached  the  monarch's  ear, 
but  the  horsemen  were  not  to  be  descried.  At  that  very  hour, 
and  along  the  shadowy  banks  of  that  river,  here  and  there 
gleaming  with  the  scanty  moonlight,  passed  the  fugitive 
messenger  of  Count  Julian,  with  the  plan  of  the  next  day's 
treason. 

The  day  had  not  yet  dawned,  when  the  sleepless  and  im- 
patient monarch  summoned  his  attendants  and  arrayed  him- 
self for  the  field.  He  then  sent  for  the  venerable  Bishop 
Urbino,  who  had  accompanied  him  to  the  camp,  and,  laying 
aside  his  regal  crown,  he  knelt  with  head  uncovered,  and 
confessed  his  sins  before  the  holy  man.  After  this  a  solemn 
mass  was  performed  in  the  royal  tent,  and  the  Eucharist 
administered  to  the  monarch.  When  these  ceremonies  were 
concluded,  he  besought  the  archbishop  to  depart  forthwith  for 
Cordova,  there  to  await  the  issue  of  the  battle,  and  to  be 
ready  to  bring  forward  re-enforcements  and  supplies.  The 
archbishop  saddled  his  mule  and  departed  just  as  the  faint 
blush  of  morning  began  to  kindle  in  the  east.  Already  the 
camp  resounded  with  the  thrilling  call  of  the  trumpet,  the 
clank  of  armor,  and  the  tramp  and  neigh  of  steeds.  As  the 
archbishop  passed  through  the  camp,  he  looked  with  a  com- 
passionate heart  on  this  vast  multitude,  of  whom  so  many 
were  soon  to  perish.  The  warriors  pressed  to  kiss  his  hand, 
and  many  a  cavalier  full  of  youth  and  fire  received  his  bene- 
diction, who  was  to  lie  stiff  and  cold  before  the  evening. 

When  the  troops  were  marshaled  for  the  field,  Don  Rod- 
erick prepared  to  sally  forth  in  the  state  and  pomp  with  which 
the  Gothic  kings  were  wont  to  go  to  battle.  He  was  arrayed 
in  robes  of  gold  brocade ;  his  sandals  were  embroidered  with 


Ce<$ei?d8  of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spaip  471 

pearls  and  diamonds ;  he  had  a  scepter  in  his  hand,  and  he 
wore  a  regal  crown  resplendent  with  inestimable  jewels. 
Thus  gorgeously  appareled,  he  ascended  a  lofty  chariot  of 
ivory,  the  axle-trees  of  which  were  of  silver,  and  the  wheels 
and  pole  covered  with  plates  of  burnished  gold.  Above  his 
head  was  a  canopy  of  cloth  of  gold  embossed  with  armorial 
devices  and  studded  with  precious  stones.*  This  sumptuous 
chariot  was  drawn  by  milk-white  horses,  with  caparisons  of 
crimson  velvet,  embroidered  with  pearls.  A  thousand  youth- 
ful cavaliers  surrounded  the  car;  all  of  the  noblest  blood  and 
bravest  spirit;  all  knighted  by  the  king's  own  hand,  and 
sworn  to  defend  him  to  the  last. 

When  Roderick  issued  forth  in  this  resplendent  state,  says 
an  Arabian  writer,  surrounded  by  his  guards  in  gilded  armor 
and  waving  plumes  and  scarfs  and  surcoats  of  a  thousand 
dyes,  it  was  as  if  the  sun  were  emerging  in  the  dazzling 
chariot  of  the  day  from  amid  the  glorious  clouds  of  morning. 

As  the  royal  car  rolled  along  in  front  of  the  squadrons, 
the  soldiers  shouted  with  admiration.  Don  Roderick  waved 
his  scepter  and  addressed  them  from  his  lofty  throne,  remind- 
ing them  of  the  horror  and  desolation  which  had  already  been 
spread  through  the  land  by  the  invaders.  He  called  upon 
them  to  summon  up  the  ancient  valor  of  their  race  and  avenge 
the  blood  of  their  brethren.  "One  day  of  glorious  fighting," 
said  he,  "and  this  infidel  horde  will  be  driven  into  the  sea  or 
will  perish  beneath  your  swords.  Forward  bravely  to  the 
fight ;  your  families  are  behind  you  praying  for  your  success ; 
the  invaders  of  your  country  are  before  you;  God  is  above  to 
bless  His  holy  cause,  and  your  king  leads  you  to  the  field." 
The  army  shouted  with  one  accord,  "Forward  to  the  foe,  and 
death  be  his  portion  who  shuns  the  encounter!"  >'*4-  s 

The  rising  sun  began  to  shine  along  the  glistening  waters 
of  the  Guadalete  as  the  Moorish  army,  squadron  after  squad- 
ron, came  sweeping  down  a  gentle  declivity  to  the  sound  of 
martial  music.  Their  turbans  and  robes,  of  various  dyes  and 

*  Entrand.  Chron.  an.  Chris.  714. 


472  ll/or^s  of 

fashions,  gave  a  splendid  appearance  to  their  host;  as  they 
marched,  a  cloud  of  dust  arose  and  partly  hid  them  from  the 
sight,  but  still  there  would  break  forth  flashes  of  steel  and 
gleams  of  burnished  gold,  like  rays  of  vivid  lightning;  while 
the  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet,  and  the  clash  of  Moorish 
cymbal,  were  as  the  warlike  thunder  within  that  stormy  cloud 
of  battle. 

As  the  armies  drew  near  each  other,  the  sun  disappeared 
among  gathering  clouds,  and  the  gloom  of  the  day  was  in- 
creased by  the  columns  of  dust  which  rose  from  either  host. 
At  length  the  trumpets  sounded  for  the  encounter.  The 
battle  commenced  with  showers  of  arrows,  stones  and  javelins. 
The  Christian  foot-soldiers  fought  to  disadvantage,  the  greater 
part  being  destitute  of  helm  or  buckler.  A  battalion  of  light 
Arabian  horsemen,  led  by  a  Greek  renegado  named  Magued 
el  Rumi,  careered  in  front  of  the  Christian  line,  launching 
their  darts,  and  then  wheeling  off  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
missiles  hurled  after  them.  Theodomir  now  brought  up  his 
seasoned  troops  into  the  action,  seconded  by  the  veteran 
Pelistes,  and  in  a  little  while  the  battle  became  furious  and 
promiscuous.  It  was  glorious  to  behold  the  old  Gothic  valor 
shining  forth  in  this  hour  of  fearful  trial.  Wherever  the 
Moslems  fell,  the  Christians  rushed  forward,  seized  upon 
their  horses  and  stripped  them  of  their  armor  and  their 
weapons.  They  fought  desperately  and  successfully,  for 
they  fought  for  their  country  and  their  faith.  The  battle 
raged  for  several  hours;  the  field  was  strown  with  slain,  and 
the  Moors,  overcome  by  the  multitude  and  fury  of  their  foes, 
began  to  falter. 

When  Taric  beheld  his  troops  retreating  before  the  enemy, 
he  threw  himself  before  them,  and,  rising  in  his  stirrups, 
"Oh,  Moslems!  conquerors  of  Africa!"  cried  he,  "whither 
would  you  fly?  The  sea  is  behind  you,  the  enemy  before ; 
you  have  no  hope  but  in  your  valor  and  the  help  of  God. 
Do  as  I  do  and  the  day  is  ours!" 

With  these  words  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  sprung 
among  the  enemy,  striking  to  right  and  left,  cutting  down 


Ce<$er>ds  of  tl?e  <?or>quest  of  Spaii?  473 

and  destroying,  while  his  steed,  fierce  as  himself,  trampled 
upon  the  foot-soldiers,  and  tore  them  with  his  teeth.  At  this 
moment  a  mighty  shout  arose  in  various  parts  of  the  field; 
the  noontide  hour  had  arrived.  The  Bishop  Oppas  with  the 
two  princes,  who  had  hitherto  kept  their  bands  out  of  the 
fight,  suddenly  went  over  to  the  enemy,  and  turned  their 
weapons  upon  their  astonished  countrymen.  From  that 
moment  the  fortune  of  the  day  was  changed,  and  the  field 
of  battle  became  a  scene  of  wild  confusion  and  bloody  mas- 
sacre. The  Christians  knew  not  whom  to  contend  with,  or 
whom  to  trust.  It  seemed  as  if  madness  had  seized  upon 
their  friends  and  kinsmen,  and  that  their  worst  enemies  were 
among  themselves. 

The  courage  of  Don  Roderick  rose  with  his  danger. 
Throwing  off  the  cumbrous  robes  of  royalty  and  descend- 
ing from  his  car,  he  sprang  upon  his  steed  Orelia,  grasped 
his  lance  and  buckler,  and  endeavored  to  rally  his  retreating 
troops.  He  was  surrounded  and  assailed  by  a  multitude  of 
his  own  traitorous  subjects,  but  defended  himself  with  won- 
drous prowess.  The  enemy  thickened  around  him ;  his  loyal 
band  of  cavaliers  were  slain,  bravely  fighting  in  his  defense ; 
the  last  that  was  seen  of  the  king  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
enemy,  dealing  death  at  every  blow. 

A  complete  panic  fell  upon  the  Christians;  they  threw 
away  their  arms  and  fled  in  all  directions.  They  were  pur- 
sued with  dreadful  slaughter,  until  the  darkness  of  the  night 
rendered  it  impossible  to  distinguish  friend  from  foe.  Taric 
then  called  off  his  troops  from  the  pursuit,  and  took  posses- 
sion of  the  royal  camp;  and  the  couch  which  had  been 
pressed  so  uneasily  on  the  preceding  night  by  Don  Roderick  - 
now  yielded  sound  repose  to  his  conqueror.* 

*  This  battle  is  called  indiscriminately  by  historians  the  battle  of 
Guadalete,  or  of  Xeres,  from  the  neighborhood  of  that  city. 


474  U/orks  of  U/asl?ii)$toi?  Irvir>$ 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN, 

THE  FIELD  OP  BATTLE  AFTER  THE  DEFEAT— THE  FATE 
OF  RODERICK 

ON  the  morning  after  the  battle,  the  Arab  leader  Taric 
ben  Zeyad  rode  over  the  bloody  field  of  the  Guadalete, 
strewed  with  the  ruins  of  those  splendid  armies  which  had 
so  lately  passed  like  glorious  pageants  along  the  river  banks. 
There  Moor  and  Christian,  horseman  and  horse,  lay  gashed 
with  hideous  wounds;  and  the  river,  still  red  with  blood, 
was  filled  with  the  bodies  of  the  slain.  The  gaunt  Arab  was 
as  a  wolf  roaming  through  the  fold  he  had  laid  waste.  On 
every  side  his  eye  reveled  on  the  ruin  of  the  country,  on  the 
wrecks  of  haughty  Spain.  There  lay  the  flower  of  her  youth- 
ful chivalry,  mangled  and  destroyed,  and  the  strength  of  her 
yeomanry  prostrated  in  the  dust.  The  Gothic  noble  lay  con- 
founded with  his  vassals ;  the  peasant  with  the  prince ;  all 
ranks  and  dignities  were  mingled  in  one  bloody  massacre. 

When  Taric  had  surveyed  the  field,  he  caused  the  spoils 
of  the  dead  and  the  plunder  of  the  camp  to  be  brought  before 
him.  The  booty  was  immense.  There  were  massy  chains, 
and  rare  jewels  of  gold;  pearls  and  precious  stones;  rich 
silks  and  brocades,  and  all  other  luxurious  decorations  in 
which  the  Gothic  nobles  had  indulged  in  the  latter  times  of 
their  degeneracy.  A  vast  amount  of  treasure  was  likewise 
found,  which  had  been  brought  by  Roderick  for  the  expenses 
of  the  war. 

Taric  then  ordered  that  the  bodies  of  the  Moslem  warriors 
should  be  interred;  as  for  those  of  the  Christians,  they  were 
gathered  in  heaps,  and  vast  pyres  of  wood  were  formed  on 
which  they  were  consumed.  The  flames  of  these  pyres  rose 
high  in  the  air,  and  were  seen  afar  off  in  the  night;  and 
when  the  Christians  beheld  them  from  the  neighboring  hills, 
they  beat  their  breasts  and  tore  their  hair,  and  lamented  over 


Ce<$er?ds  of  tf?e  <?oi)quest  of  Spaii?  475 

them  as  over  the  funeral  fires  of  their  country.  The  carnage 
of  that  battle  infected  the  air  for  two  whole  months,  and 
bones  were  seen  lying  in  heaps  upon  the  field  for  more  than 
forty  years ;  nay,  when  ages  had  passed  and  gone,  the  hus- 
bandman, turning  up  the  soil,  would  still  find  fragments  of 
Gothic  cuirasses  and  helms,  and  Moorish  scimiters,  the  relics 
of  that  dreadful  fight. 

For  three  days  the  Arabian  horsemen  pursued  the  flying 
Christians;  hunting  them  over  the  face  of  the  country;  so 
that  but  a  scanty  number  of  that  mighty  host  escaped  to  tell 
the  tale  of  their  disaster. 

Taric  ben  Zeyad  considered  his  victory  incomplete  so  long 
as  the  Gothic  monarch  survived;  he  proclaimed  great  re- 
wards, therefore,  to  whomsoever  should  bring  Roderick  to 
him,  dead  or  alive.  A  diligent  search  was  accordingly  made 
in  every  direction,  but  for  a  long  time  in  vain;  at  length  a 
soldier  brought  to  Taric  the  head  of  a  Christian  warrior,  on 
which  was  a  cap  decorated  with  feathers  and  precious  stones. 
The  Arab  leader  received  it  as  the  head  of  the  unfortunate 
Roderick,  and  sent  it,  as  a  trophy  of  his  victory,  to  Muza  ben 
Nosier,  who,  in  like  manner,  transmitted  it  to  the  caliph  at 
Damascus.  The  Spanish  historians,  however,  have  always 
denied  its  identity. 

A  mystery  has  ever  hung,  and  ever  must  continue  to 
hang,  over  the  fate  of  King  Roderick,  in  that  dark  and  dole- 
ful day  of  Spain.  Whether  he  went  down  amid  the  storm 
of  battle,  and  atoned  for  his  sins  and  errors  by  a  patriot 
grave,  or  whether  he  survived  to  repent  of  them  in  hermit 
exile,  must  remain  matter  of  conjecture  and  dispute.  The 
learned  Archbishop  Rodrigo,  who  has  recorded  the  events  of 
this  disastrous  field,  affirms  that  Roderick  fell  beneath  the 
vengeful  blade  of  the  traitor  Julian,  and  thus  expiated  with 
his  blood  his  crime  against  the  hapless  Florinda;  but  the 
archbishop  stands  alone  in  his  record  of  the  fact.  It  seems 
generally  admitted  that  Orelia,  the  favorite  war-horse,  was 
found  entangled  in  a  marsh  on  the  borders  of  the  Guadalete, 
with  the  sandals  and  mantle  and  royal  insignia  of  the  king 


476  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi> 

lying  close  by  him.  The  river  at  this  place  ran  broad  and 
deep,  and  was  encumbered  with  the  dead  bodies  of  warriors 
and  steeds;  it  has  been  supposed,  therefore,  that  he  perished 
in  the  stream ;  but  his  body  was  not  found  within  its  waters. 

When  several  years  had  passed  away,  and  men's  minds, 
being  restored  to  some  degree  of  tranquillity,  began  to  occupy 
themselves  .about  the  events  of  this  dismal  day,  a  rumor  arose 
that  Roderick  had  escaped  from  the  carnage  on  the  banks  of 
the  Guadalete,  and  was  still  alive.  It  was  said  that,  having 
from  a  rising  ground  caught  a  view  of  the  whole  field  of  bat- 
tle, and  seen  that  the  day  was  lost,  and  his  army  flying  in  all 
directions,  he  likewise  sought  his  safety  in  flight.  It  is  added 
that  the  Arab  horsemen,  while  scouring  the  mountains  in 
quest  of  fugitives,  found  a  shepherd  arrayed  in  the  royal 
robes,  and  brought  him  before  the  conqueror,  believing  him 
to  be  the  king  himself.  Count  Julian  soon  dispelled  the 
error.  On  being  questioned,  the  trembling  rustic  declared 
that  while  tending  his  sheep  in  the  folds  of  the  mountains, 
there  came  a  cavalier  on  a  horse  wearied  and  spent  and 
ready  to  sink  beneath  the  spur.  That  the  cavalier  with  an 
authoritative  voice  and  menacing  air  commanded  him  to  ex- 
change garments  with  him,  and  clad  himself  in  his  rude  garb 
of  sheep-skin,  and  took  his  crook  and  his  scrip  of  provisions, 
and  continued  up  the  rugged  defiles  of  the  mountains  leading 
toward  Castile,  until  he  was  lost  to  view.* 

This  tradition  was  fondly  cherished  by  many,  who  clung 
to  the  belief  in  the  existence  of  their  monarch  as  their  main 
hope  for  the  redemption  of  Spain.  It  was  even  affirmed  that 
he  had  taken  refuge,  with  many  of  his  host,  in  an  island  of 
the  "Ocean  sea,"  from  whence  he  might  yet  return  once 
more  to  elevate  his  standard  and  battle  for  the  recovery  of 
his  throne. 

Year  after  year,  however,  elapsed,  and  nothing  was  heard 
of  Don  Roderick ;  yet,  like  Sebastian  of  Portugal,  and  Arthur 
of  England,  his  name  continued  to  be  a  rallying  point  for 

*  Bleda.  Cron.  L.  2,  c.  9.     Abulcasim  Tarif  Abentarique,  L.  1,  c.  10. 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spaii)  477 

popular  faith,  and  the  mystery  of  his  end  to  give  rise  10  ro- 
mantic fables.  At  length,  when  generation  after  generation 
had  sunk  into  the  grave,  and  near  two  centuries  had  passed 
and  gone,  traces  were  said  to  be  discovered  that  threw  a 
light  on  the  final  fortunes  of  the  unfortunate  Roderick.  At 
that  time,  Don  Alphonso  the  Great,  King  of  Leon,  had 
wrested  the  city  of  Viseo  in  Lusitania  from  the  hands  of  the 
Moslems.  As  his  soldiers  were  ranging  about  the  city  and 
its  environs,  one  of  them  discovered  in  a  field,  outside  of  the 
walls,  a  small  chapel  or  hermitage,  with  a  sepulcher  in  front, 
on  which  was  inscribed  this  epitaph  in  Gothic  characters : 

HIC   REQUIESCIT   RUDERICUS, 
ULTIMUS   BEX   GOTHORUM. 

Here  lies  Roderick, 
The  last  king  of  the  Goths. 

It  has  been  believed  by  many  that  this  was  the  veritable 
tomb  of  the  monarch,  and  that  in  this  hermitage  he  had  fin- 
ished his  days  in  solitary  penance.  The  warrior,  as  he  con- 
templated the  supposed  tomb  of  the  once  haughty  Roderick, 
forgot  all  his  faults  and  errors,  and  shed  a  soldier's  tear  over 
his  memory ;  but  when  his  thoughts  turned  to  Count  Julian, 
his  patriotic  indignation  broke  forth,  and  with  his  dagger  he 
inscribed  a  rude  malediction  on  the  stone. 

"Accursed,"  said  he,  "be  the  impious  and  headlong  ven- 
geance of  the  traitor  Julian.  He  was  a  murderer  of  his  king; 
a  destroyer  of  his  kindred ;  a  betrayer  of  his  country.  May 
his  name  be  bitter  in  every  mouth,  and  his  memory  infamous 
to  all  generations!" 

Here  ends  the  legend  of  Don  Roderick. 


478  U/or^s  of  U/asl?i^tor> 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF    THE  FOREGOING  LEGEND 

THE    TOMB    OF    RODERICK 

THE  venerable  Sebastiano,  Bishop  of  Salamanca,  declares 
that  the  inscription  on  the  tomb  at  Viseo  in  Portugal  existed 
in  his  time,  and  that  he  had  seen  it.  A  particular  account 
of  the  exile  and  hermit  life  of  Roderick  is  furnished  by  Ber- 
ganza,  on  the  authority  of  Portuguese  chronicles. 

Algunos  historiadores  Portugueses  asseguran,  que  el  Rey 
Rodrigo,  perdida  la  battalia,  huyo  a  tierra  de  Merida,  y  se 
recogio  en  el  monasterio  de  Cauliniano,  en  donde,  arrepen- 
tido  de  sus  culpas,  procure  confessarlas  con  muchas  lagrimas. 
Deseando  mas  retire,  y  escogiendo  por  companero  a  un  monge 
llamado  Roman,  y  elevando  la  Imagen  de  Nazareth,  que 
Cyriaco  monge  de  nacion  griego  avra  traido  de  Jerusalem  al 
monasterio  de  Cauliniano,  se  subio  a  un  monte  muy  aspero, 
que  estaba  sobre  el  mar,  junto  al  lugar  de  Pederneyra.  Vivio 
Rodrigo  en  compania  de  el  monge  en  el  hueco  de  una  gruta 
por  espacio  de  un  afio ;  despues  se  passo  a  la  ermita  de  san 
Miguel,  que  estaba  cerca  de  Viseo,  en  donde  murio  y  fue 
sepultado. 

Puedese  ver  esta  relacion  en  las  notas  de  Don  Thomas 
Tamayo  sobre  Paulo  deacano.  El  chronicon  de  san  Millan, 
que  llega  hasta  el  ano  883,  deze  que,  hasta  su  tiempo,  si 
ignora  el  fin  del  Rey  Rodrigo.  Pocos  anos  despues  el  Rey 
Don  Alonzo  el  Magno,  aviendo  ganado  la  ciudad  de  Viseo, 
encontre  en  una  iglesia  el  epitafio  que  en  romance  dize — aqui 
yaze  Rodrigo,  ultimo  Rey  de  los  Godos. — Berganza,  L.  1, 
c.  13. 


THE    CAVE    OF    HURCULES 

As  the  story  of  the  necromantic  tower  is  one  of  the  most 
famous  as  well  as  least  credible  points  in  the  history  of  Don 
Roderick,  it  may  be  well  to  fortify  or  buttress  it  by  some 


Ce<$epds  of  tl?e  <?oi>quest  of  Spaip  479 

account  of  another  marvel  of  the  city  of  Toledo.  This  an- 
cient city,  which  dates  its  existence  almost  from  the  time  of 
the  flood,  claiming  as  its  founder  Tubal,  the  son  of  Japhet, 
and  grandson  of  Noah,*  has  been  the  warrior  hold  of  many 
generations,  and  a  strange  diversity  of  races.  It  bears 
traces  of  the  artifices  and  devices  of  its  various  occupants, 
and  is  full  of  mysteries  and  subjects  for  antiquarian  con- 
jecture and  perplexity.  It  is  built  upon  a  high  rocky  prom- 
ontory, with  the  Tagus  brawling  round  its  base,  and  is 
overlooked  by  cragged  and  precipitous  hills.  These  hills 
abound  with  clefts  and  caverns ;  and  the  promontory  itself, 
on  which  the  city  is  built,  bears  traces  of  vaults  and  subter- 
raneous habitations,  which  are  occasionally  discovered  under 
the  ruins  of  ancient  houses,  or  beneath  the  churches  and 
convents. 

These  are  supposed  by  some  to  have  been  the  habitations 
or  retreats  of  the  primitive  inhabitants ;  for  it  was  the  cus- 
tom of  the  ancients,  according  to  Pliny,  to  make  caves  in 
high  and  rocky  places,  and  live  in  them  through  fear  of 
floods ;  and  such  a  precaution,  says  the  worthy  Don  Pedro 
de  Roxas,  in  his  history  of  Toledo,  was  natural  enough 
among  the  first  Toledans,  seeing  that  they  founded  their 
city  shortly  after  the  deluge,  while  the  memory  of  it  was 
still  fresh  in  their  minds. 

Some  have  supposed  these  secret  caves  and  vaults  to  have 
been  places  of  concealment  of  the  inhabitants  and  their  treas- 
ure during  times  of  war  and  violence;  or  rude  temples  for 
the  performance  of  religious  ceremonies  in  times  of  persecu- 
tion. There  are  not  wanting  other,  and  grave  writers,  who 
give  them  a  still  darker  purpose.  In  these  caves,  say  they, 
were  taught  the  diabolical  mysteries  of  magic ;  and  here  were 
performed  those  infernal  ceremonies  and  incantations  hor- 
rible in  the  eyes  of  God  and  man.  "History,"  says  the 
worthy  Don  Pedro  de  Roxas,  "is  full  of  accounts  that  the 
magi  taught  and  performed  their  magic  and  their  supersti- 

*  Salazar,  Hist.  Gran.  Cardinal,  Prologo,  vol.  1,  plan  1. 


480  U/or^s  of 

tious  rites  in  profound  caves  and  secret  places;  because  as 
this  art  of  the  devil  was  prohibited  from  the  very  origin  of 
Christianity,  they  always  sought  for  hidden  places  in  which 
to  practice  it.*'  In  the  tune  of  the  Moors  this  art,  we  are 
told,  was  publicly  taught  at  their  universities,  the  same  as 
astronomy,  philosophy,  and  mathematics,  and  at  no  place 
was  it  cultivated  with  more  success  than  at  Toledo.  Hence 
this  city  has  ever  been  darkly  renowned  for  mystic  science; 
insomuch  that  the  magic  art  was  called  by  the  French,  and 
by  other  nations,  the  Arte  Toledana. 

Of  all  the  marvels,  however,  of  this  ancient,  picturesque, 
romantic,  and  necromantic  city,  none  in  modern  tunes  sur- 
pass the  cave  of  Hercules,  if  we  may  take  the  account  of 
Don  Pedro  de  Roxas  for  authentic.  The  entrance  to  this 
cave  is  within  the  church  of  San  Gines,  situated  in  nearly  the 
highest  part  of  the  city.  The  portal  is  secured  by  massy 
doors,  opening  within  the  walls  of  the  church,  but  which  are 
kept  rigorously  closed.  The  cavern  extends  under  the  city 
and  beneath  the  bed  of  the  Tagus  to  the  distance  of  three 
leagues  beyond.  It  is,  in  some  places,  of  rare  architecture, 
built  of  small  stones  curiously  wrought,  and  supported  by 
columns  and  arches. 

In  the  year  1546  an  account  of  this  cavern  was  given  to 
the  archbishop  and  cardinal  Don  Juan  Martinez  Siliceo,  who, 
desirous  of  examining  it,  ordered  the  entrance  to  be  cleaned. 
A  number  of  persons  furnished  with  provisions,  lanterns  and 
cords,  then  went  in,  and  having  proceeded  about  half  a 
league,  came  to  a  place  where  there  was  a  kind  of  chapel  or 
temple,  having  a  table  or  altar,  with  several  statues  of  bronze 
in  niches  or  on  pedestals. 

While  they  were  regarding  this  mysterious  scene  of  ancient 
worship  or  incantation,  one  of  the  statues  fell,  with  a  noise 
that  echoed  through  the  cavern,  and  smote  the  hearts  of  the 
adventurers  with  terror.  Recovering  from  their  alarm  they 
proceeded  onward,  but  were  soon  again  dismayed  by  a  roaring 
and  rushing  sound  that  increased  as  they  advanced.  It  was 
made  by  a  furious  and  turbulent  stream,  the  dark  waters  of 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spaii?  481 

which  were  too  deep  and  broad  and  rapid  to  be  crossed.  By 
this  time  their  hearts  were  so  chilled  with  awe,  and  their 
thoughts  so  bewildered,  that  they  could  not  seek  any  other 
passage  by  which  they  might  advance;  so  they  turned  back 
and  hastened  out  of  the  cave.  It  was  nightfall  when  they 
sallied  forth,  and  they  were  so  much  affected  by  the  terror 
they  had  undergone,  and  by  the  cold  and  damp  air  of  the 
cavern,  to  which  they  were  the  more  sensible  from  its  being 
in  the  summer,  that  all  of  them  fell  sick  and  several  of  them 
died.  Whether  the  archbishop  was  encouraged  to  pursue 
his  research  and  gratify  his  curiosity,  the  history  does  not 
mention. 

Alonzo  Telles  de  Meneses,  in  his  history  of  the  world, 
records,  that  not  long  before  his  time  a  boy  of  Toledo,  being 
threatened  with  punishment  by  his  master,  fled  and  took 
refuge  in  this  cave.  Fancying  his  pursuer  at  his  heels,  he 
took  no  heed  of  the  obscurity  or  coldness  of  the  cave,  but  kept 
groping  and  blundering  forward,  until  he  came  forth  at  three 
leagues'  distance  from  the  city. 

Another  and  very  popular  story  of  this  cave,  current 
among  the  common  people,  was,  that  in  its  remote  recesses 
lay  concealed  a  great  treasure  of  gold,  left  there  by  the 
Romans.  Whoever  would  reach  this  precious  hoard  must 
pass  through  several  caves  or  grottoes ;  each  having  its  par- 
ticular terror,  and  all  under  the  guardianship  of  a  ferocious 
dog,  who  has  the  key  of  all  the  gates  and  watches  day  and 
night.  At  the  approach  of  any  one  he  shows  his  teeth  and 
makes  a  hideous  growling ;  but  no  adventurer  after  wealth 
has  had  courage  to  brave  a  contest  with  this  terrific  cer- 
berus. 

The  most  intrepid  candidate  on  record  was  a  poor  man 
who  had  lost  his*  all,  and  had  those  grand  incentives  to  des- 
perate enterprise,  a  wife  and  a  large  family  of  children. 
Hearing  the  story  of  this  cave,  he  determined  to  venture 
alone  in  search  of  the  treasure.  He  accordingly  entered  and 
wandered  many  hours,  bewildered,  about  the  cave.  Often 
would  he  have  returned,  but  the  thoughts  of  his  wife  and 
*  *  *31  VOL.  I. 


482  U/orKs  of  UAasl?ir?<$toi} 

children  urged  him  on.  At  length  he  arrived  near  to  the 
place  where  he  supposed  the  treasure  lay  hidden;  but  here, 
to  his  dismay,  he  beheld  the  floor  of  the  cavern  strewn  with 
human  bones;  doubtless  the  remains  of  adventurers  like 
himself,  who  had  been  torn  to  pieces. 

Losing  all  courage,  he  now  turned  and  sought  his  way 
out  of  the  cave.  Horrors  thickened  upon  him  as  he  fled.  He 
beheld  direful  phantoms  glaring  and  gibbering  around  him, 
and  heard  the  sound  of  pursuit  in  the  echoes  of  his  footsteps. 
He  reached  his  home  overcome  with  affright;  several  hours 
elapsed  before  he  could  recover  speech  to  tell  his  story,  and 
he  died  on  the  following  day. 

The  judicious  Don  Pedro  de  Roxas  holds  the  account  of 
the  buried  treasure  for  fabulous,  but  the  adventure  of  this 
unlucky  man  for  very  possible,  being  led  on  by  avarice,  or 
rather  the  hope  of  retrieving  a  desperate  fortune.  He,  more- 
over, pronounces  his  dying  shortly  after  coming  forth  as  very 
probable ;  because  the  darkness  of  the  cave,  its  coldness,  the 
fright  at  finding  the  bones,  the  dread  of  meeting  the  imagi- 
nary dog,  all  joining  to  operate  upon  a  man  who  was  past  the 
prime  of  his  days,  and  enfeebled  by  poverty  and  scanty  food, 
might  easily  cause  his  death. 

Many  have  considered  this  cave  as  intended  originally  for 
a  sally  or  retreat  from  the  city  in  case  it  should  be  taken ;  an 
opinion  rendered  probable,  it  is  thought,  by  its  grandeur  and 
great  extent. 

The  learned  Salazar  de  Mendoza,  however,  in  his  history 
of  the  grand  cardinal  of  Spain,  affirms  it  as  an  established 
fact,  that  it  was  first  wrought  out  of  the  rock  by  Tubal,  the 
son  of  Japhet,  and  grandson  of  Noah,  and  afterward  repaired 
and  greatly  augmented  by  Hercules  the  Egyptian,  who  made 
it  his  habitation  after  he  had  erected  his  pillars  at  the  straits 
of  Gibraltar.  Here,  too,  it  is  said,  he  read  magic  to  his  fol- 
lowers, and  taught  them  those  supernatural  arts  by  which 
he  accomplished  his  vast  achievements.  Others  think  that  it 
was  a  temple  dedicated  to  Hercules ;  as  was  the  case,  accord- 
ing to  Pomponius  Mela,  with  the  great  cave  in  the  rock  of 


of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spaip  483 

Gibraltar;  certain  it  is,  that  it  has  always  borne  the  name 
of  "The  Cave  of  Hercules." 

There  are  not  wanting  some  who  have  insinuated  that  it 
was  a  work  dating  from  the  time  of  the  Romans,  and  in- 
tended as  a  cloaca  or  sewer  of  the  city ;  but  such  a  groveling 
insinuation  will  be  treated  with  proper  scorn  by  the  reader, 
after  the  nobler  purposes  to  which  he  has  heard  this  marvelous 
cavern  consecrated. 

From  all  the  circumstances  here  adduced  from  learned  and 
reverend  authors,  it  will  be  perceived  that  Toledo  is  a  city 
fruitful  of  marvels,  and  that  the  necromantic  tower  of  Her- 
cules has  more  solid  foundation  than  most  edifices  of  similar 
import  in  ancient  history. 

The  writer  of  these  pages  will  venture  to  add  the  result  of 
his  personal  researches  respecting  the  far-famed  cavern  in 
question.  Rambling  about  Toledo  in  the  year  1826,  in  com- 
pany with  a  small  knot  of  antiquity  hunters,  among  whom 
was  an  eminent  British  painter,*  and  an  English  nobleman, f 
who  has  since  distinguished  himself  in  Spanish  historical  re- 
search, we  directed  our  steps  to  the  church  of  San  Gines,  and 
inquired  for  the  portal  of  the  secret  cavern.  The  sacristan 
was  a  voluble  and  communicative  man,  and  one  not  likely  to 
be  niggard  of  his  tongue  about  anything  he  knew,  or  slow  to 
boast  of  any  marvel  pertaining  to  his  church ;  but  he  professed 
utter  ignorance  of  the  existence  of  any  such  portal.  He  re- 
membered to  have  heard,  however,  that  immediately  under 
the  entrance  to  the  church  there  was  an  arch  of  mason- work, 
apparently  the  upper  part  of  some  subterranean  portal ;  but 
that  all  had  been  covered  up  and  a  pavement  laid  down 
thereon ;  so  that  whether  it  lead  to  the  magic  cave  or  the 
necromantic  tower  remains  a  mystery,  and  so  must  remain 
until  some  monarch  or  archbishop  shall  again  have  courage 
and  authority  to  break  the  spell. 

*  Mr.  D.  W— kie.        f  Lord  Mah— n. 


484  Works  of  U/asl?ii)$toi) 


LEGEND   OF   THE    SUBJUGATION   OF 
SPAIN* 


CHAPTER  ONE 

CONSTERNATION  OF  SPAIN — CONDUCT  OF  THE  CONQUERORS- 
MISSIVES  BETWEEN  TARIC  AND  MUZA 

THE  overthrow  of  King  Roderick  and  his  army,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Guadalete,  threw  open  all  southern  Spain  to 
the  inroads  of  the  Moslems.  The  whole  country  fled  be 
fore  them ;  villages  and  hamlets  were  hastily  abandoned ;  the 
inhabitants  placed  their  aged  and  infirm,  their  wives  and 
children,  and  their  most  precious  effects,  on  mules  and  other 
beasts  of  burden,  and,  driving  before  them  their  flocks  and 
herds,  made  for  distant  parts  of  the  land;  for  the  fastnesses 
of  the  mountains,  and  for  such  of  the  cities  as  yet  possessed 
walls  and  bulwarks.  Many  gave  out,  faint  and  weary,  by 
the  way,  and  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy;  others,  at  the 
distant  sight  of  a  turban  or  a  Moslem  standard,  or  on  hearing 
the  clangor  of  a  trumpet,  abandoned  their  flocks  and  herds 
and  hastened  their  flight  with  their  families.  If  their  pur- 
suers gained  upon  them,  they  threw  by  their  household  goods 
and  whatever  was  of  burden,  and  thought  themselves  fort- 
unate to  escape,  naked  and  destitute,  to  a  place  of  refuge. 
Thus  the  roads  were  covered  with  scattered  flocks  and  herds, 
and  with  spoil  of  all  kind. 

*  In  this  legend  most  of  the  facts  respecting  the  Arab  inroads  into 
Spain  are  on  the  authority  of  Arabian  writers,  who  had  the  most 
accurate  means  of  information.  Those  relative  to  the  Spaniards  are 
chiefly  from  old  Spanish  chronicles.  It  is  to  be  remarked  that  the  Arab 
accounts  have  most  the  air  of  verity,  and  the  events  as  they  relate 
them  are  in  the  ordinary  course  of  common  life.  The  Spanish  ac- 
counts, on  the  contrary,  are  full  of  the  marvelous ;  for  there  were  no 
greater  romancers  than  the  monkish  chroniclers. 


Ce$ei?dg  of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spairj  485 

The  Arabs,  however,  were  not  guilty  of  wanton  cruelty 
or  ravage ;  on  the  contrary,  they  conducted  themselves  with 
a  moderation  but  seldom  witnessed  in  more  civilized  con- 
querors. Taric  el  Tuerto,  though  a  thorough  man  of  the 
sword,  and  one  whose  whole  thoughts  were  warlike,  yet 
evinced  wonderful  judgment  and  discretion.  He  checked  the 
predatory  habits  of  his  troops  with  a  rigorous  hand.  They 
were  forbidden,  under  pain  of  severe  punishment,  to  molest 
any  peaceable  and  unfortified  towns,  or  any  unarmed  and 
unresisting  people,  who  remained  quiet  in  their  homes.  No 
spoil  was  permitted  to  be  made  excepting  in  fields  of  battle, 
in  camps  of  routed  foes,  or  in  cities  taken  by  the  sword. 

Taric  had  little  need  to  exercise  his  severity ;  his  orders 
were  obeyed  through  love,  rather  than  fear,  for  he  was  the 
idol  of  his  soldiery.  They  admired  his  restless  and  daring 
spirit,  which  nothing  could  dismay.  His  gaunt  and  sinewy 
form,  his  fiery  eye,  his  visage  seamed  with  scars,  were  suited 
to  the  hardihood  of  his  deeds ;  and  when  mounted  on  his 
foaming  steed,  careering  the  field  of  battle  with  quivering 
lance  or  flashing  scimiter,  his  Arabs  would  greet  him  with 
shouts  of  enthusiasm.  But  what  endeared  him  to  them  more 
than  all  was  his  soldier-like  contempt  of  gain.  Conquest  was 
his  only  passion ;  glory  the  only  reward  he  coveted.  As  to 
the  spoil  of  the  conquered,  he  shared  it  freely  among  his  fol- 
lowers, and  squandered  his  own  portion  with  open-handed 
generosity. 

While  Taric  was  pushing  his  triumphant  course  through 
Andalusia,  tidings  of  his  stupendous  victory  on  the  banks  of 
the  Guadalete  were  carried  to  Muza  ben  Nosier.  Messengers 
after  messengers  arrived,  vying  who  should  most  extol  the 
achievements  of  the  conqueror  and  the  grandeur  of  the  con- . 
quest.  "Taric,"  said  they,  "has  overthrown  the  whole 
force  of  the  unbelievers  in  one  mighty  battle.  Their  king  is 
slain ;  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  their  warriors  are 
destroyed;  the  whole  land  lies  at  our  mercy,  and  city  after 
city  is  surrendering  to  the  victorious  arms  of  Taric." 

The  heart  of  Muza  ben  Nosier  sickened  at  these  tidings, 


486  U/orl^s  of  U/asbip$toi7 

and,  instead  of  rejoicing  at  the  success  of  the  cause  of  Islam, 
he  trembled  with  jealous  fear  lest  the  triumphs  of  Taric  in 
Spain  should  eclipse  his  own  victories  in  Africa.  He  dis- 
patched missives  to  the  Caliph  Waled  Almanzor,  informing 
him  of  these  new  conquests,  but  taking  the  whole  glory  to 
himself,  and  making  no  mention  of  the  services  of  Taric ;  or 
at  least,  only  mentioning  him  incidentally  as  a  subordinate 
commander.  "The  battles,"  said  he,  "have  been  terrible  as 
the  day  of  judgment;  but  by  the  aid  of  Allah  we  have  gained 
the  victory." 

He  then  prepared  in  all  haste  to  cross  over  into  Spain  and 
assume  the  command  of  the  conquering  army;  and  he  wrote 
a  letter  in  advance  to  interrupt  Taric  in  the  midst  of  his 
career.  "Wherever  this  letter  may  find  thee,"  said  he,  "I 
charge  thee  halt  with  thy  army  and  await  my  coming.  Thy 
force  -  is  inadequate  to  the  subjugation  of  the  land,  and  by 
rashly  venturing  thou  mayst  lose  everything.  I  will  be  with 
thee  speedily,  with  a  re-enforcement  of  troops  competent  to 
so  great  an  enterprise." 

The  letter  overtook  the  veteran  Taric  while  in  the  full 
glow  of  triumphant  success;  having  overrun  some  of  the 
richest  parts  of  Andalusia,  and  just  received  the  surrender  of 
the  city  of  Ecija.  As  he  read  the  letter  the  blood  mantled  in 
his  sunburned  cheek  and  fire  kindled  in  his  eye,  for  he  pene- 
trated the  motives  of  Muza.  He  suppressed  his  wrath,  how- 
ever, and  turning  with  a  bitter  expression  of  forced  compos- 
ure to  his  captains,  "Unsaddle  your  steeds,"  said  he,  "and 
plant  your  lances  in  the  earth;  set  up  your  tents  and  take 
your  repose :  for  we  must  await  the  coming  of  the  Wali  with 
a  mighty  force  to  assist  us  in  our  conquest. ' ' 

The  Arab  warriors  broke  forth  with  loud  murmurs  at 
these  words:  "What  need  have  we  of  aid,"  cried  they, 
"when  the  whole  country  is  flying  before  us;  and  what 
better  commander  can  we  have  than  Taric  to  lead  us  on 
to  victory?" 

Count  Julian,  also,  who  was  present,  now  hastened  to 
give  his  traitorous  counsel. 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tl?e  ^opquest  of  Spair>  487 

"Why  pause,"  cried  he,  "at  this  precious  moment?  The 
great  army  of  the  Goths  is  vanquished,  and  their  nobles  are 
slaughtered  or  dispersed.  Follow  up  your  blow  before  the 
land  can  recover  from  its  panic.  Overrun  the  provinces, 
seize  upon  the  cities,  make  yourself  master  of  the  capital,  and 
your  conquest  is  complete."* 

The  advice  of  Julian  was  applauded  by  all  the  Arab 
chieftains,  who  were  impatient  of  any  interruption  in  their 
career  of  conquest.  Taric  was  easily  persuaded  to  what  was 
the  wish  of  his  heart.  Disregarding  the  letter  of  Muza,  there- 
fore, he  prepared  to  pursue  his  victories.  For  this  purpose 
he  ordered  a  review  of  his  troops  on  the  plain  of  Ecija.  Some 
were  mounted  on  steeds  which  they  had  brought  from  Africa ; 
the  rest  he  supplied  with  horses  taken  from  the  Christians. 
He  repeated  his  general  orders,  that  they  should  inflict  no 
wanton  injury,  nor  plunder  any  place  that  offered  no  resist- 
ance. They  were  forbidden,  also,  to  encumber  themselves 
with  booty,  or  even  with  provisions;  but  were  to  scour  the 
country  with  all  speed,  and  seize  upon  all  its  fortresses  and 
strongholds. 

He  then  divided  his  host  into  three  several  armies.  One 
he  placed  under  the  command  of  the  Greek  renegade,  Magued 
el  Rumi,  a  man  of  desperate  courage,  and  sent  it  against  the 
ancient  city  of  Cordova.  Another  was  sent  against  the  city 
of  Malaga,  and  was  led  by  Zayd  ben  Kesadi,  aided  by  the 
Bishop  Oppas.  The  third  was  led  by  Taric  himself,  and  with 
this  he  determined  to  make  a  wide  sweep  through  the  king- 
dom, f 


*  Conde,  p.  1,  c.  10. 

f  Cronica  de  Espana,  de  Alonzo  el  Sabio,  P.  3,  o.  1. 


488  Worlds  of 


CHAPTER   TWO 

CAPTURE   OF  GRANADA — SUBJUGATION  OF  THE  ALPUXARRA 
MOUNTAINS 

THE  terror  of  the  arms  of  Taric  ben  Zeyad  went  before 
him ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  report  of  his  lenity  to  those 
who  submitted  without  resistance.  Wherever  he  appeared, 
the  towns,  for  the  most  part,  sent  forth  some  of  their  princi- 
pal inhabitants  to  proffer  a  surrender ;  for  they  were  destitute 
of  fortifications,  and  their  fighting  men  had  perished  in  bat- 
tle. They  were  all  received  into  allegiance  to  the  caliph,  and 
were  protected  from  pillage  or  molestation. 

After  marching  some  distance  through  the  country,  he 
entered  one  day  a  vast  and  beautiful  plain,  interspersed  with 
villages,  adorned  with  groves  and  gardens,  watered  by  wind- 
ing rivers,  and  surrounded  by  lofty  mountains.  It  was  the 
famous  vega,  or  plain  of  Granada,  destined  to  be  for  ages 
the  favorite  abode  of  the  Moslems.  When  the  Arab  con- 
querors beheld  this  delicious  vega,  they  were  lost  in  admira- 
tion ;  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  Prophet  had  given  them  a  paradise 
on  earth  as  a  reward  for  their  services  in  his  cause. 

Taric  approached  the  city  of  Granada,  which  had  a  for- 
midable "aspect,  seated  on  lofty  hills  and  fortified  with  Gothic 
walls  and  towers,  and  with  the  red  castle  or  citadel,  built  in 
times  of  old  by  the  Phoenicians  or  the  Romans.  As  the  Arab 
chieftain  eyed  the  place,  he  was  pleased  with  its  stern  war- 
rior look,  contrasting  with  the  smiling  beauty  of  its  vega, 
and  the  freshness  and  voluptuous  abundance  of  its  hills  and 
valleys.  He  pitched  his  tents  before  its  walls,  and  made 
preparations  to  attack  it  with  all  his  force. 

The  city,  however,  bore  but  the  semblance  of  power.  The 
flower  of  its  youth  had  perished  in  the  battle  of  the  Guada- 
lete ;  many  of  the  principal  inhabitants  had  fled  to  the  moun- 
tains, and  few  remained  in  the  city  excepting  old  men,  women 


Ce$er>ds  of  tl?e  <?or>quest  of  Spaip  488 

and  children,  and  a  number  of  Jews,  which  last  were  well 
disposed  to  take  part  with  the  conquerors.  The  city,  there- 
fore, readily  capitulated,  and  was  received  into  vassalage  on 
favorable  terms.  The  inhabitants  were  to  retain  their  prop- 
erty, their  laws,  and  their  religion ;  their  churches  and  priests 
were  to  be  respected ;  and  no  other  tribute  was  required  of 
them  than  such  as  they  had  been  accustomed  to  pay  to  their 
Gothic  kings. 

On  taking  possession  of  Granada,  Taric  garrisoned  the 
towers  and  castles,  and  left  as  alcayde  or  governor  a  chosen 
warrior  named  Betiz  Aben  Habuz,  a  native  of  Arabia  Felix, 
who  had  distinguished  himself  by  his  valor  and  abilities. 
This  alcayde  subsequently  made  himself  king  of  Granada, 
and  built  a  palace  on  one  of  its  hills ;  the  remains  of  which 
may  be  seen  at  the  present  day.* 

Even  the  delights  of  Granada  had  no  power  to  detain  the 
active  and  ardent  Taric.  To  the  east  of  the  city  he  beheld 
a  lofty  chain  of  mountains,  towering  to  the  sky,  and  crowned 
with  shining  snow.  These  were  the  "Mountains  of  the  Sun 
and  Air";  and  the  perpetual  snows  on  their  summits  gave 
birth  to  streams  that  fertilized  the  plains.  In  their  bosoms, 
shut  up  among  cliffs  and  precipices,  were  many  small  valleys 


*  The  house  shown  as  the  ancient  residence  of  Aben  Habuz  is  called 
la  Casa  del  Gallo,  or  the  house  of  the  weathercock;  so  named,  says 
Pedraza,  in  his  history  of  Granada,  from  a  bronze  figure  of  an  Arab 
horseman,  armed  with  lance  and  buckler,  which  once  surmounted  it, 
and  which  varied  with  every  wind.  On  this  warlike  weathercock  was 
inscribed,  in  Arabic  characters, 

"Dice  el  sabio  Aben  Habuz  » 

Que  asi  se  defiende  el  Andaluz." 

(In  this  way,  says  Aben  Habuz  the  wise, 
The  Andalusian  his  foe  defies.) 

The  Casa  del  Gallo,  even  until  within  twenty  years,  possessed  two 
great  halls  beautifully  decorated  with  morisco  reliefs.  It  then  caught 
fire  and  was  so  damaged  as  to  require  to  be  nearly  rebuilt.  It  is  now  a 
manufactory  of  coarse  canvas,  and  has  nothing  of  the  Moorish  charac- 
ter remaining.  It  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  the  city  and  the  vega. 


490  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii)<Jtoi} 

of  great  beauty  and  abundance.  The  inhabitants  were  a 
bold  and  hardy  race,  who  looked  upon  their  mountains  as 
everlasting  fortresses  that  could  never  be  taken.  The  in- 
habitants of  the  surrounding  country  had  fled  to  these  natural 
fastnesses  for  refuge,  and  driven  thither  their  flocks  and 
herds. 

Taric  felt  that  the  dominion  he  had  acquired  of  the  plains 
would  be  insecure  until  he  had  penetrated  and  subdued  these 
haughty  mountains.  Leaving  Aben  Habuz,  therefore,  in 
command  of  Granada,  he  marched  with  his  army  across 
the  vega,  and  entered  the  folds  of  the  Sierra,  which  stretch 
toward  the  south.  The  inhabitants  fled  with  affright  on 
hearing  the  Moorish  trumpets,  or  beholding  the  approach  of 
the  turbaned  horsemen,  and  plunged  deeper  into  the  recesses 
of  their  mountains.  As  the  army  advanced  the  roads  be- 
came more  and  more  rugged  and  difficult;  sometimes  climb- 
ing great  rocky  heights,  and  at  other  tunes  descending 
abruptly  into  deep  ravines,  the  beds  of  winter  torrents.  The 
mountains  were  strangely  wild  and  sterile;  broken  into  cliffs 
and  precipices  of  variegated  marble.  At  their  feet  were  lit- 
tle valleys  enameled  with  groves  and  gardens,  interlaced 
with  silver  streams,  and  studded  with  villages  and  hamlets; 
but  all  deserted  by  their  inhabitants.  No  one  appeared  to 
dispute  the  inroad  of  the  Moslems,  who  continued  their 
march  with  increasing  confidence,  their  pennons  fluttering 
from  rock  and  cliff,  and  the  valleys  echoing  to  the  din  of 
trumpet,  drum,  and  cymbal.  At  length  they  came  to  a  de- 
file where  the  mountains  seemed  to  have  been  rent  asunder 
to  make  way  for  a  foaming  torrent.  The  narrow  and  broken 
road  wound  along  the  dizzy  edge  of  precipices,  until  it  came 
to  where  a  bridge  was  thrown  across  the  chasm.  It  was  a 
fearful  and  gloomy  pass;  great  beetling  cliffs  overhung  the 
road,  and  the  torrent  roared  below.  This  awful  defile  has 
ever  been  famous  in  the  warlike  history  of  those  mountains, 
by  the  name,  in  former  times,  of  the  Barranco  de  Tocos,  and 
at  present  of  the  bridge  of  Tablete.  The  Saracen  army  en- 
tered fearlessly  into  the  pass;  a  part  had  already  crossed  the 


of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spaip  491 

bridge,  and  was  slowly  toiling  up  the  rugged  road  on  the 
opposite  side,  when  great  shouts  arose,  and  every  cliff  ap- 
peared suddenly  peopled  with  furious  foes.  In  an  instant  a 
deluge  of  missiles  of  every  sort  was  rained  upon  the  aston- 
ished Moslems.  Darts,  arrows,  javelins,  and  stones,  came 
whistling  down,  singling  out  the  most  conspicuous  cavaliers; 
and  at  times  great  masses  of  rock,  bounding  and  thundering 
along  the  mountain  side,  crushed  whole  ranks  at  once,  or 
hurled  horses  and  riders  over  the  edge  of  the  precipices. 

It  was  in  vain  to  attempt  to  brave  this  mountain  warfare. 
The  enemy  were  beyond  the  reach  of  missiles,  and  safe  from 
pursuit;  and  the  horses  of  the  Arabs  were  here  an  incum- 
brance  rather  than  an  aid.  The  trumpets  sounded  a  retreat, 
and  the  army  retired  in  tumult  and  confusion,  harassed  by 
the  enemy  until  extricated  from  the  defile.  Taric,  who  had 
beheld  cities  and  castles  surrendering  without  a  blow,  was 
enraged  at  being  braved  by  a  mere  horde  of  mountain  boors, 
and  made  another  attempt  to  penetrate  the  mountains,  but 
was  again  waylaid  and  opposed  with  horrible  slaughter. 

The  fiery  son  of  Ishmael  foamed  with  rage  at  being  thus 
checked  in  his  career  and  foiled  in  his  revenge.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  abandoning  the  attempt,  and  returning  to  the 
vega,  when  a  Christian  boor  sought  his  camp,  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  his  presence.  The  miserable  wretch  possessed  a 
cabin  and  a  little  patch  of  ground  among  the  mountains,  and 
offered,  if  these  should  be  protected  from  ravage,  to  inform 
the  Arab  commander  of  a  way  by  which  troops  of  horse 
might  be  safely  introduced  into  the  bosom  of  the  Sierra,  and 
the  whole  subdued.  The  name  of  this  caitiff  was  Fandino, 
and  it  deserves  to  be  perpetually  recorded  with  ignominy. 
His  case  is  an  instance  how  much  it  is  in  the  power,  at  times, 
of  the  most  insignificant  being  to  do  mischief,  and  how  all 
the  valor  of  the  magnanimous  and  the  brave  may  be  de- 
feated by  the  treason  of  the  selfish  and  the  despicable. 

Instructed  by  this  traitor,  the  Arab  commander  caused 
ten  thousand  foot-soldiers  and  four  thousand  horsemen,  com- 
manded by  a  valiant  captain  named  Ibrahim  Albuxarra,  to 


492  U/orl^s  of 

be  conveyed  by  sea  to  the  little  port  of  Adra,  at  the  Medi* 
terxanean  foot  of  the  mountains.  Here  they  landed,  and, 
guided  by  the  traitor,  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  the  Sierra, 
laying  everything  waste.  The  brave  mountaineers,  thus 
hemmed  in  between  two  armies,  .destitute  of  fortresses  and 
without  hope  of  succor,  were  obliged  to  capitulate;  but  their 
valor  was  not  without  avail,  for  never,  even  in  Spain,  did 
vanquished  people  surrender  on  prouder  or  more  honorable 
terms.  We  have  named  the  wretch  who  betrayed  his  native 
mountains;  let  us,  equally,  record  the  name  of  him  whose 
pious  patriotism  saved  them  from  desolation.  It  was  the 
reverend  Bishop  Centerio.  While  the  warriors  rested  on 
their  arms  in  grim  and  menacing  tranquillity  among  the 
cliffs,  this  venerable  prelate  descended  to  the  Arab  tents  hi 
the  valley  to  conduct  the  capitulation.  In  stipulating  for  the 
safety  of  his  people,  he  did  not  forget  that  they  were  brave 
men,  and  that  they  still  had  weapons  in  their  hands.  He 
obtained  conditions  accordingly.  It  was  agreed  that  they 
should  be  permitted  to  retain  their  houses,  lands,  and  per- 
sonal effects ;  that  they  should  be  unmolested  in  their  relig- 
ion, and  their  temples  and  priests  respected;  and  that  they 
should  pay  no  other  tribute  than  such  as  they  had  been  ac- 
customed to  render  to  their  kings.  Should  they  prefer  to 
leave  the  country  and  to  remove  to  any  part  of  Christendom, 
they  were  to  be  allowed  to  sell  their  possessions  i  and  to  take 
with  them  the  money,  and  all  their  other  effects.* 

Ibrahim  Albuxarra  remained  in  command  of  the  terri- 
tory, and  the  whole  sierra,  or  chain  of  mountains,  took  his 
name,  which  has  since  been  slightly  corrupted  into  that  of 
the  Alpuxarras.  The  subjugation  of  this  rugged  region, 
however,  was  for  a  long  time  incomplete ;  many  of  the  Chris- 
tians maintained  a  wild  and  hostile  independence,  living  in 
green  glens  and  scanty  valleys  among  the  heights;  and  the 
sierra  of  the  Alpuxarras  has,  in  all  ages,  been  one  of  the  most 
difficult  parts  of  Andalusia  to  be  subdued. 

*  Pedruza,  Hist.  Granad.  p.  3,  C.  2.    Bleda  Cronica,  L.  2,  c.10. 


of  tl?e  9oi?quest  of  Spaiij  493 


CHAPTER  THREE 

EXPEDITION    OP   MAGUED   AGAINST    COKDOVA — DEFENSE 
OP   THE   PATRIOT   PELISTES 

WHILE  the  veteran  Taric  was  making  this  wide  circuit 
through  the  land,  the  expedition  under  Magued  the  renegado 
proceeded  against  the  city  of  Cordova.  The  inhabitants  of 
that  ancient  place  had  beheld  the  great  army  of  Don  Roderick 
spreading  like  an  inundation  over  the  plain  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir, and  had  felt  confident  that  it  must  sweep  the  infidel 
invaders  from  the  land.  What  then  was  their  dismay  when 
scattered  fugitives,  wild  with  horror  and  affright,  brought 
them  tidings  of  the  entire  overthrow  of  that  mighty  host, 
and  the  disappearance  of  the  king!  In  the  midst  of  their 
consternation,  the  Gothic  noble,  Pelistes,  arrived  at  their 
gates,  haggard  with  fatigue  of  body  and  anguish  of  mind, 
and  leading  a  remnant  of  his  devoted  cavaliers,  who  had  sur- 
vived the  dreadful  battle  of  the  Guadalete.  The  people  of 
Cordova  knew  the  valiant  and  steadfast  spirit  of  Pelistes, 
and  rallied  round  him  as  a  last  hope.  "Roderick  is  fallen," 
cried  they,  "and  we  have  neither  king  nor  captain;  be  unto 
us  as  a  sovereign;  take  command  of  our  city,  and  protect  us 
in  this  hour  of  peril!" 

The  heart  of  Pelistes  was  free  from  ambition,  and  waa 
too  much  broken  by  grief  to  be  flattered  by  the  offer  of  com- 
mand ;  but  he  felt  above  everything  for  the  woes  of  his  coun- 
try, and  was  ready  to  assume  any  desperate  service  in  her 
cause.  "Your  city,"  said  he,  "is  surrounded  by  walls  and 
towers,  and  may  yet  check  the  progress  of  the  foe.  Promise 
to  stand  by  me  to  the  last,  and  I  will  undertake  your  de- 
fense." The  inhabitants  all  promised  implicit  obedience  and 
devoted  zeal ;  for  what  will  not  the  inhabitants  of  a  wealthy 
city  promise  and  profess  in  a  moment  of  alarm.  The  instant, 
however,  that  they  heard  of  the  approach  of  the  Moslem 


494  U/orKs  of  U/aslpip^top  Iruii7<$ 

troops,  the  wealthier  citizens  packed  up  their  effects  and  fled 
to  the  mountains,  or  to  the  distant  city  of  Toledo.  Even  the 
monks  collected  the  riches  of  their  convents  and  churches, 
and  fled.  Pelistes,  though  he  saw  himself  thus  deserted  by 
those  who  had  the  greatest  interest  in  the  safety  of  the  city, 
yet  determined  not  to  abandon  its  defense.  He  had  still  his 
faithful  though  scanty  band  of  cavaliers,  and  a  number  of 
fugitives  of  the  army ;  in  all  amounting  to  about  four  hun- 
dred men.  He  stationed  guards,  therefore,  at  the  gates  and 
in  the  towers,  and  made  every  preparation  for  a  desperate 
resistance. 

In  the  meantime,  the  army  of  Moslems  and  apostate 
Christians  advanced,  under  the  command  of  the  Greek 
renegade  Magued,  and  guided  by  the  traitor  Julian.  While 
they  were  yet  at  some  distance  from  the  city,  their  scouts 
brought  to  them  a  shepherd,  whom  they  had  surprised  on 
the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir.  The  trembling  hind  was  an 
inhabitant  of  Cordova,  and  revealed  to  them  the  state  of  the 
place,  and  the  weakness  of  its  garrison. 

"And  the  walls  and  gates,"  said  Magued,  "are  they 
strong  and  well  guarded?" 

"The  walls  are  high,  and  of  wondrous  strength,"  replied 
the  shepherd,  "and  soldiers  hold  watch  at  the  gates  by  day 
and  night.  But  there  is  one  place  where  the  city  may  be 
secretly  entered.  In  a  part  of  the  wall,  not  far  from  the 
bridge,  the  battlements  are  broken,  and  there  is  a  breach  at 
some  height  from  the  ground.  Hard  by  stands  a  fig-tree,  by 
the  aid  of  which  the  wall  may  easily  be  scaled." 

Having  received  this  information,  Magued  halted  with 
his  army,  and  sent  forward  several  renegado  Christians,  par- 
tisans of  Count  Julian,  who  entered  Cordova  as  if  flying  be- 
fore the  enemy.  On  a  dark  and  tempestuous  night,  the 
Moslems  approached  to  the  end  of  the'  bridge  which  crosses 
the  Guadalquivir,  and  remained  in  ambush.  Magued  took 
a  small  party  of  chosen  men,  and,  guided  by  the  shepherd, 
forded  the  stream  and  groped  silently  along  the  wall  to  the 
place  where  stood  the  fig-tree.  The  traitors,  who  had  fraudu- 


Ce«$erjds  of  tl?e  ^opquest  of  Spaip  495 

lently  entered  the  city,  were  ready  on  the  wall  to  render  as- 
sistance. Magued  ordered  his  followers  to  make  use  of  the 
long  folds  of  their  turbans  instead  of  cords,  and  succeeded 
without  difficulty  in  clambering  into  the  breach. 

Drawing  their  scimiters,  they  now  hastened  to  the  gate 
which  opened  toward  the  bridge ;  the  guards,  suspecting  no 
assault  from  within,  were  taken  by  surprise,  and  easily  over- 
powered ;  the  gate  was  thrown  open,  and  the  army  that  had 
remained  in  ambush  rushed  over  the  bridge  and  entered 
without  opposition. 

The  alarm  had  by  this  time  spread  throughout  the  city; 
but  already  a  torrent  of  armed  men  was  pouring  through  the 
streets.  Pelistes  sallied  forth  with  his  cavaliers  and  such  of 
the  soldiery  as  he  could  collect,  and  endeavored  to  repel  the 
foe;  but  every  effort  was  in  vain.  The  Christians  were 
slowly  driven  from  street  to  street,  and  square  to  square, 
disputing  every  inch  of  ground ;  until,  finding  another  body 
of  the  enemy  approaching  to  attack  them  in  rear,  they  took 
refuge  in  a  convent,  and  succeeded  in  throwing  to  and  bar- 
ring the  ponderous  doors.  The  Moore  attempted  to  force  the 
gates,  but  were  assailed  with  such  showers  of  missiles  from 
the  windows  and  battlements  that  they  were  obliged  to  retire. 
Pelistes  examined  the  convent,  and  found  it  admirably  cal- 
culated for  defense.  It  was  of  great  extent,  with  spacious 
courts  and  cloisters.  The  gates  were  massive,  and  secured 
with  bolts  and  bars;  the  walls  were  of  great  thickness;  the 
windows  high  and  grated ;  there  was  a  great  tank  or  cistern 
of  water,  and  the  friars,  who  had  fled  from  the  city,  had  left 
behind  a  goodly  supply  of  provisions.  Here,  then,  Pelistes 
proposed  to  make  a  stand,  and  to  endeavor  to  hold  out  untfl 
succor  should  arrive  from  some  other  city.  His  proposition 
was  received  with  shouts  by  his  loyal  cavaliers;  not  one  of 
whom  but  was  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  in  the  service  of  his 
commander. 


496  U/orKs  of  U/asbii^top  Iruii?$ 

CHAPTER  FOUR 

DEFENSE  OP  THE  CONVENT  OF  ST.  GEORGE  BY  PELISTES 

FOR  three  long  and  anxious  months  did  the  good  knight 
Pelistes  and  his  cavaliers  defend  their  sacred  asylum  against 
the  repeated  assaults  of  the  infidels.  The  standard  of  the 
true  faith  was  constantly  displayed  from  the  loftiest  tower, 
and  a  fire  blazed  there  throughout  the  night,  as  signals  of 
distress  to  the  surrounding  country.  The  watchman  from 
his  turret  kept  a  wary  lookout  over  the  land,  hoping  in  every 
cloud  of  dust  to  descry  the  glittering  helms  of  Christian  war- 
riors. The  country,  however,  was  forlorn  and  abandoned, 
or  if  perchance  a  human  being  was  perceived,  it  was  some 
Arab  horseman,  careering  the  plain  of  the  Guadalquivir  as 
fearlessly  as  if  it  were  his  native  desert. 

By  degrees  the  provisions  of  the  convent  were  consumed, 
and  the  cavaliers  had  to  slay  their  horses,  one  by  one,  for 
food.  They  suffered  the  wasting  miseries  of  famine  without 
a  murmur,  and  always  met  their  commander  with  a  smile. 
Pelistes,  however,  read  their  sufferings  in  their  wan  and 
emaciated  countenances,  and  felt  more  for  them  than  for 
himself.  He  was  grieved  at  heart  that  such  loyalty  and 
valor  should  only  lead  to  slavery  or  death,  and  resolved  to 
make  one  desperate  attempt  for  their  deliverance.  Assem- 
bling them  one  day  in  the  court  of  the  convent,  he  disclosed 
to  them  his  purpose. 

"Comrades  and  brothers  in  arms,"  said  he,  "it  is  needless 
to  conceal  danger  from  brave  men.  Our  case  is  desperate; 
our  countrymen  either  know  not  or  heed  not  our  situation,  or 
have  not  the  means  to  help  us.  There  is  but  one  chance  of 
escape;  it  is  full  of  peril,  and,  as  your  leader,  I  claim  the 
right  to  brave  it.  To-morrow  at  break  of  day  I  will  sally 
forth  and  make  for  the  city  gates  at  the  moment  of  their 


Ce<$epds  of  tl?e  <?oi)quest  of  Spaip  497 

being  opened ;  no  one  will  suspect  a  solitary  horseman ;  I 
shall  be  taken  for  one  of  those  recreant  Christians  who  have 
basely  mingled  with  the  enemy.  If  I  succeed  in  getting  out 
of  the  city,  I  will  hasten  to  Toledo  for  assistance.  In  all 
events  I  shall  be  back  in  less  than  twenty  days.  Keep  a 
vigilant  lookout  toward  the  nearest  mountain.  If  you  behold 
five  lights  blazing  upon  its  summit,  be  assured  I  am  at  hand 
with  succor,  and  prepare  yourselves  to  sally  forth  upon  the 
city  as  I  attack  the  gates.  Should  I  fail  in  obtaining  aid,  I 
will  return  to  die  with  you." 

When  he  had  finished,  his  warriors  would  fain  have 
severally  undertaken  the  enterprise,  and  they  remonstrated 
against  his  exposing  himself  to  such  peril ;  but  he  was  not  to 
be  shaken  from  his  purpose.  On  the  following  morning,  ere 
the  break  of  day,  his  horse  was  led  forth,  caparisoned,  into 
the  court  of  the  convent,  and  Pelistes  appeared  in  complete 
armor.  Assembling  his  cavaliers  in  the  chapel,  he  prayed 
with  them  for  some  time  before  the  altar  of  the  holy  Virgin. 
Then  rising  and  standing  in  the  midst  of  them,  ' '  God  knows, 
my  companions,"  said  he,  "whether  we  have  any  longer  a 
country ;  if  not,  better  were  we  in  our  graves.  Loyal  and 
true  have  ye  been  to  me,  and  loyal  have  ye  been  to  my  son, 
even  to  the  hour  of  his  death;  and  grieved  am  I  that  I  have 
no  other  means  of  proving  my  love  for  you,  than  by  adven- 
turing my  worthless  life  for  your  deliverance.  All  I  ask  of 
you  before  I  go  is  a  solemn  promise  to  defend  yourselves  to 
the  last  like  brave  men  and  Christian  cavaliers,  and  never  to 
renounce  your  faith,  or  throw  yourselves  on  the  mercy  of  the 
renegado  Magued,  or  the  traitor  Julian."  They  all  pledged 
their  words,  and  took  a  solemn  oath  to  the  same  effect  before 
the  altar. 

Pelistes  then  embraced  them  one  by  one,  and  gave  them 
nis  benediction,  and  as  he  did  so  his  heart  yearned  over  them, 
for  he  felt  toward  them,  not  merely  as  a  companion  in  arms 
and  as  a  commander,  but  as  a  father;  and  he  took  leave  of 
them  as  if  he  had  been  going  to  his  death.  The  warriors,  on 
their  part,  crowded  round  him  in  silence,  kissing  his  hands 


498  U/orKs  of  U/asbJp$top  Irvir?$ 

and  the  hem  of  his  surcoat,  and  many  of  the  sternest  shed 
tears. 

The  gray  of  the  dawning  had  just  streaked  the  east,  when 
Pelistes  took  lance  in  hand,  hung  his  shield  about  his  neck, 
and,  mounting  his  steed,  issued  quietly  forth  from  a  postern 
of  the  convent.  He  paced  slowly  through  the  vacant  streets, 
and  the  tramp  of  his  steed  echoed  afar  in  that  silent  hour; 
but  no  one  suspected  a  warrior,  moving  thus  singly  and  tran- 
quilly in  an  armed  city,  to  be  an  enemy.  He  arrived  at  the 
gate  just  at  the  hour  of  opening ;  a  foraging  party  was  en- 
tering with  cattle  and  with  beasts  of  burden,  and  he  passed 
unheeded  through  the  throng.  As  soon  as  he  was  out  of 
sight  of  the  soldiers  who  guarded  the  gate,  he  quickened  his 
pace,  and  at  length,  galloping  at  full  speed,  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  mountains.  Here  he  paused,  and  alighted  at  a 
solitary  farmhouse  to  breathe  his  panting  steed;  but  had 
scarce  put  foot  to  ground  when  he  heard  the  distant  sound  of 
pursuit,  and  beheld  a  horseman  spurring  up  the  mountain. 

Thro  whig  himself  again  upon  his  steed,  he  abandoned  the 
road  and  galloped  across  the  rugged  heights.  The  deep  dry 
channel  of  a  torrent  checked  his  career,  and  his  horse  stum- 
bling upon  the  margin,  rolled  with  his  rider  to  the  bottom. 
Pelistes  was  sorely  bruised  by  the  fall,  and  his  whole  visage 
was  bathed  in  blood.  His  horse,  too,  was  maimed  and  un- 
able to  stand,  so  that  there  was  no  hope  of  escape.  The 
enemy  drew  near,  and  proved  to  be  no  other  than  Magued, 
the  renegado  general,  who  had  perceived  him  as  he  issued 
forth  from  the  city,  and  had  followed  singly  in  pursuit. 
"Well  met,  senor  alcayde!"  exclaimed  he,  "and  overtaken  in 
good  time.  Surrender  yourself  my  prisoner." 

Pelistes  made  no  other  reply  than  by  drawing  his  sword, 
bracing  his  shield,  and  preparing  for  defense.  Magued, 
though  an  apostate,  and  a  fierce  warrior,  possessed  some 
sparks  of  knightly  magnanimity.  Seeing  his  adversary  dis- 
mounted, he  disdained  to  take  him  at  a  disadvantage,  but, 
alighting,  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree. 

The  conflict  that  ensued  was  desperate  and  doubtful,  for 


Ce<$ei>d8  of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spalp  499 

seldom  had  two  warriors  met  so  well  matched  or  of  equal 
prowess.  Their  shields  were  hacked  to  pieces,  the  ground 
was  strewed  with  fragments  of  their  armor  and  stained  with 
their  blood.  They  paused  repeatedly  to  take  breath ;  regard- 
ing each  other  with  wonder  and  admiration.  Pelistes,  how- 
ever, had  been  previously  injured  by  his  fall  and  fought  to 
great  disadvantage.  The  renegado  perceived  it,  and  sought 
not  to  slay  him,  but  to  take  him  alive.  Shifting  his  ground 
continually,  he  wearied  his  antagonist,  who  was  growing 
weaker  and  weaker  from  the  loss  of  blood.  At  length  Pelistes 
seemed,  to  summon  up  all  his  remaining  strength  to  make  a 
signal  blow ;  it  was  skillfully  parried,  and  he  fell  prostrate 
upon  the  ground.  The  renegado  ran  up,  and  putting  his  foot 
upon  his  sword,  and  the  point  of  his  scimiter  to  his  throat, 
called  upon  him  to  ask  his  life ;  but  Pelistes  lay  without  sense, 
and  as  one  dead.  Magued  then  unlaced  the  helmet  of  his 
vanquished  enemy,  and  seated  himself  on  a  rock  beside  him, 
to  recover  breath.  In  this  situation  the  warriors  were  found 
by  certain  Moorish  cavaliers,  who  marveled  much  at  the  traces 
of  that  stern  and  bloody  combat. 

Finding  there  was  yet  life  in  the  Christian  knight,  they 
laid  him  upon  one  of  their  horses,  and,  aiding  Magued  to 
remount  his  steed,  proceeded  slowly  to  the  city.  As  the  con- 
voy passed  by  the  convent,  the  cavaliers  looked  forth  and 
beheld  their  commander  borne  along  bleeding  and  a  captive. 
Furious  at  the  sight,  they  sallied  forth  to  the  rescue,  but 
were  repulsed  by  a  superior  force  and  driven  back  to  the  great 
portal  of  the  church.  The  enemy  entered  pell  mell  with 
them,  fighting  from  aisle  to  aisle,  from  altar  to  altar,  and  in 
the  courts  and  cloisters  of  the  convent.  The  greater  part  of 
the  cavaliers  died  bravely,  sword  in  hand ;  the  rest  were  dis- 
abled with  wounds  and  made  prisoners.  The  convent,  which 
was  lately  their  castle,  was  now  made  their  prison,  and  in 
after  times,  in  commemoration  of  this  event,  was  consecrated 
by  the  name  of  St.  George  of  the  Captives. 


500  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ir?$toi) 


CHAPTER  FIYE 

MEETING    BETWEEN    THE    PATRIOT    PELISTES    AND     THE 
TRAITOR    JULIAN 

THE  loyalty  and  prowess  of  the  good  knight  Pelistes  had 
gained  him  the  reverence  even  of  his  enemies.  He  was  for  a 
long  time  disabled  by  his  wounds,  during  which  he  was 
kindly  treated  by  the  Arab  chieftains,  who  strove  by  every 
courteous  means  to  cheer  his  sadness  and  make  him  forget 
that  he  was  a  captive.  When  he  was  recovered  from  his 
wounds  they  gave  him  a  magnificent  banquet,  to  testify  their 
admiration  of  his  virtues. 

Pelistes  appeared  at  the  banquet  clad  in  sable  armor,  and 
with  a  countenance  pale  and  dejected,  for  the  ills  of  his 
country  evermore  preyed  upon  his  heart.  Among  the  as- 
sembled guests  was  Count  Julian,  who  held  a  high  command 
in  the  Moslem  army,  and  was  arrayed  in  garments  of  mingled 
Christian  and  Morisco  fashion.  Pelistes  had  been  a  close  and 
bosom  friend  of  Julian  in  former  times,  and  had  served  with 
him  in  the  wars  in  Africa;  but  when  the  count  advanced  to 
accost  him  with  his  wonted  amity,  he  turned  away  in  silence 
and  deigned  not  to  notice  him;  neither,  during  the  whole 
of  the  repast,  did  he  address  to  him  ever  a  word,  but  treated 
hun  as  one  unknown. 

When  the  banquet  was  nearly  at  a  close,  the  discourse 
turned  upon  the  events  of  the  war,  and  the  Moslem  chief- 
tains, in  great  courtesy,  dwelt  upon  the  merits  of  many  of  the 
Christian  cavaliers  who  had  fallen  in  battle,  and  all  extolled 
the  valor  of  those  who  had  recently  perished  in  the  defense  of 
the  convent.  Pelistes  remained  silent  for  a  time,  and  checked 
the  grief  which  swelled  within  his  bosom  as  he  thought  of 
his  devoted  cavaliers.  At  length,  lifting  up  his  voice, 
"Happy  are  the  dead,"  said  he,  "for  they  rest  in  peace, 


Ce<$er?ds  of  tfoe  <?opquest  of  Spaip  501 

and  are  gone  to  receive  the  reward  of  their  piety  and  valor ! 
I  could  mourn  over  the  loss  of  my  companions  in  arms,  but 
they  have  fallen  with  honor,  and  are  spared  the  wretchedness 
I  feel  in  witnessing  the  thraldom  of  my  country.  I  have 
seen  my  only  son,  the  pride  and  hope  of  my  age,  cut  down  at 
my  side;  I  have  beheld  kindred  friends  and  followers  falling 
one  by  one  around  me,  and  have  become  so  seasoned  to  those 
losses  that  I  have  ceased  to  weep.  Yet  there  is  one  man 
over  whose  loss  I  will  never  cease  to  grieve.  He  was  the 
loved  companion  of  my  youth,  and  the  steadfast  associate  of 
my  graver  years.  He  was  one  of  the  most  loyal  of  Christian 
knights.  As  a  friend  he  was  loving  and  sincere ;  as  a  warrior 
his  achievements  were  above  all  praise.  What  has  become 
of  him,  alas!  I  know  not.  If  fallen  in  battle,  and  I  knew 
where  his  bones  were  laid,  whether  bleaching  on  the  plains 
of  Xeres,  or  buried  hi  the  waters  of  the  Guadalete,  I  would 
seek  them  out  and  enshrine  them  as  the  relics  of  a  sainted 
patriot.  Or  if,  like  many  of  his  companions  in  arms,  he 
should  be  driven  to  wander  in  foreign  lands,  I  would  join 
him  in  his  hapless  exile,  and  we  would  mourn  together  over 
the  desolation  of  our  country." 

Even  the  hearts  of  the  Arab  warriors  were  touched  by 
the  lament  of  the  good  Pelistes,  and  they  said — "Who  was 
this  peerless  friend  in  whose  praise  thou  art  so  fervent?" 

"His  name,"   replied  Pelistes,  "was  Count  Julian." 

The  Moslem  warriors  stared  with  surprise.  "Noble 
cavalier,"  exclaimed  they,  "has  grief  disordered  thy  senses? 
Behold  thy  friend  living  and  standing  before  thee,  and  yet 
thou  dost  not  know  him!  This,  this  is  Count  Julian!" 

Upon  this,  Pelistes  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  count,  and 
regarded  him  for  a  time  with  a  lofty  and  stern  demeanor; 
and  the  countenance  of  Julian  darkened  and  was  troubled, 
and  his  eye  sank  beneath  the  regard  of  that  loyal  and  honor- 
able cavalier.  And  Pelistes  said,  "In  the  name  of  God,  I 
charge  thee,  man  unknown !  to  answer.  Dost  thou  presume 
to  call  thyself  Count  Julian?" 

The  count  reddened  with  anger  at  these  words.     "Pelis- 


502  U/orKs  of  U/as!?iD<$toi7 

tes,"  said  he,  "what  means  this  mockery;  thou  knoweet  me 
well;  thou  knowest  me  for  Count  Julian." 

"I  know  thee  for  a  base  impostor!"  cried  Pelistes. 
"Count  Julian  was  a  noble  Gothic  knight;  but  thou  ap- 
pearest  in  mongrel  Moorish  garb.  Count  Julian  was  a 
Christian,  faithful  and  devout;  but  I  behold  in  thee  a  ren- 
egado  and  an  infidel.  Count  Julian  was  ever  loyal  to  his 
king,  and  foremost  in  his  country's  cause;  were  he  living  he 
would  be  the  first  to  put  shield  on  neck  and  lance  in  rest,  to 
clear  the  land  of  her  invaders;  but  thou  art  a  hoary  traitor! 
thy  hands  are  stained  with  the  royal  blood  of  the  Goths,  and 
thou  hast  betrayed  thy  country  and  thy  God.  Therefore,  I 
again  repeat,  man  unknown !  if  thou  sayest  thou  art  Count 
Julian,  thou  liest!  My  friend,  alas!  is  dead;  and  thou  art 
some  fiend  from  hell,  which  hast  taken  possession  of  his  body 
to  dishonor  his  memory  and  render  him  an  abhorrence  among 
men!"  So  saying,  Pelistes  turned  his  back  upon  the  traitor, 
and  went  forth  from  the  banquet;  leaving  Count  Julian  over- 
whelmed with  confusion,  and  an  object  of  scorn  to  all  the 
Moslem  cavaliers. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

HOW  TARIC    EL    TUERTO    CAPTURED    THE    CITY   OF    TOLEDO 

THROUGH    THE   AID    OP   THE    JEWS,    AND    HOW    HE 

POUND   THE   FAMOUS   TALISMANIC    TABLE 

OP    SOLOMON 

WHILE  these  events  were  passing  hi  Cordova,  the  one- 
eyed  Arab  general,  Taric  el  Tuerto,  having  subdued  the  city 
and  vega  of  Granada,  and  the  Mountains  of  the  Sun  and 
Air,  directed  his  march  into  the  ulterior  of  the  kingdom  to 
attack  the  ancient  city  of  Toledo,  the  capital  of  the  Gothic 
kings.  So  great  was  the  terror  caused  by  the  rapid  con- 
quests of  the  invaders  that  at  the  very  rumor  of  their  ap- 
proach, many  of  the  inhabitants,  though  thus  in  the  very 
citadel  of  the  kingdom,  abandoned  it  and  fled  to  the  moun- 


Ce^erjds  of  tl?e  <?or>quest  of  Spaip  503 

tains  with  their  families.  Enough  remained,  however,  to 
have  made  a  formidable  defense;  and,  as  the  city  was  seated 
on  a  lofty  rock,  surrounded  by  massive  walls  and  towers, 
and  almost  girdled  by  the  Tagus,  it  threatened  a  long  resist- 
ance. The  Arab  warriors  pitched  their  tents  in  the  vega,  on 
the  borders  of  the  river,  and  prepared  for  a  tedious  siege. 

One  evening,  as  Taric  was  seated  in  his  tent  meditating 
on  the  mode  in  which  he  should  assail  this  rock-built  city, 
certain  of  the  patrols  of  the  camp  brought  a  stranger  before 
him.  "As  we  were  going  our  rounds,"  said  they,  "we  be- 
held this  man  lowered  down  with  cords  from  a  tower,  and 
he  delivered  himself  into  our  hands,  praying  to  be  conducted 
to  thy  presence,  that  he  might  reveal  to  thee  certain  things 
important  for  thee  to  know." 

Taric  fixed  his  eye  upon  the  stranger :  he  was  a  Jewish 
rabbi,  with  a  long  beard  which  spread  upon  his  gabardine 
and  descended  even  to  his  girdle.  "What  hast  thou  to  re- 
veal?" said  he  to  the  Israelite.  "What  I  have  to  reveal," 
replied  the  other,  "is  for  thee  alone  to  hear;  command  then, 
I  entreat  thee,  that  these  men  withdraw."  When  they  were 
alone  he  addressed  Taric  in  Arabic:  "Know,  O  leader  of  the 
host  of  Islam,"  said  he,  "that  I  am  sent  to  thee  on  the  part 
of  the  children  of  Israel  resident  in  Toledo.  We  have  been 
oppressed  and  insulted  by  the  Christians  in  the  time  of  their 
prosperity,  and  now  that  they  are  threatened  with  siege  they 
have  taken  from  us  all  our  provisions  and  our  money;  they 
have  compelled  us  to  work  like  slaves,  repairing  their  walls; 
and  they  oblige  us  to  bear  arms  and  guard  a  part  of  the 
towers.  We  abhor  their  yoke,  and  are  ready,  if  thou  wilt 
receive  us  as  subjects  and  permit  us  the  free  enjoyment  of 
our  religion  and  our  property,  to  deliver  the  towers  we  guard 
into  thy  hands,  and  to  give  thee  safe  entrance  into  the  city." 

The  Arab  chief  was  overjoyed  at  this  proposition,  and  he 
rendered  much  honor  to  the  rabbi,  and  gave  orders  to  clothe 
him  in  a  costly  robe,  and  to  perfume  his  beard  with  essences 
of  a  pleasant  odor,  so  that  he  was  the  most  sweet  smelling  of 
his  tribe;  and  he  said,  "Make  thy  words  good,  and  put  me 


504  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip$toi)  Iruii)$ 

in  possession  of  the  city,  and  I  will  do  all  and  more  than 
thou  hast  required,  and  will  bestow  countless  wealth  upon 
thee  and  thy  brethren." 

Then  a  plan  was  devised  between  them  by  which  the 
city  was  to  be  betrayed  and  given  up.  "But  how  shall  I  be 
secured,"  said  he,  "that  all  thy  tribe  will  fulfill  what  thou 
hast  engaged,  and  that  this  is  not  a  stratagem  to  get  me  and 
my  people  into  your  power?" 

"This  shall  be  thy  assurance,"  replied  the  rabbi.  "Ten 
of  the  principal  Israelities  will  come  to  this  tent  and  remain 
as  hostages." 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Taric;  and  he  made  oath  to  accom- 
plish all  that  he  had  promised ;  and  the  Jewish  hostages  came 
and  delivered  themselves  into  his  hands. 

On  a  dark  night,  a  chosen  band  of  Moslem  warriors  ap- 
proached the  part  of  the  walls  guarded  by  the  Jews,  and 
were  secretly  admitted  into  a  postern  gate  and  concealed 
within  a  tower.  Three  thousand  Arabs  were  at  the  same 
time  placed  in  ambush  among  rocks  and  thickets,  in  a  place 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  commanding  a  view  of  the 
city.  On  the  following  morning  Taric  ravaged  the  gardens 
of  the  valley,  and  set  fire  to  the  farmhouses,  and  then  break- 
ing up  his  camp  marched  off  as  if  abandoning  the  siege. 

The  people  of  Toledo  gazed  with  astonishment  from  their 
walls  at  the  retiring  squadrons  of  the  enemy,  and  scarcely 
could  credit  their  unexpected  deliverance;  before  night  there 
was  not  a  turban  nor  a  hostile  lance  to  be  seen  in  the  vega. 
They  attributed  it  all  to  the  special  intervention  of  their  pa- 
tron saint,  Leocadia ;  and  the  following  day  being  Palm  Sun- 
day, they  sallied  forth  in  procession,  man,  woman,  and  child, 
to  the  church  of  that  blessed  saint,  which  is  situated  without 
the  walls,  that  they  might  return  thanks  for  her  marvelous 
protection. 

When  all  Toledo  had  thus  poured  itself  forth,  and  was 
marching  with  cross  and  relic  and  solemn  chant  toward  the 
chapel,  the  Arabs,  who  had  been  concealed  in  the  tower, 
rushed  forth  and  barred  the  gates  of  the  city.  While  some 


Ce$ei?ds  of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spai$  505 


guarded  the  gates,  others  dispersed  themselves  about  the 
streets,  slaying  all  who  made  resistance  ;  and  others  kindled 
a  fire  and  made  a  column  of  smoke  on  the  top  of  the  citadel. 
At  sight  of  this  signal,  the  Arabs  in  ambush  beyond  the 
river  rose  with  a  great  shout,  and  attacked  the  multitude 
who  were  thronging  to  the  church  of  St.  Leocadia.  There 
was  a  great  massacre,  although  the  people  were  without 
arms,  and  made  no  resistance;  and  it  is  said,  in  ancient 
chronicles,  that  it  was  the  apostate  Bishop  Oppas  who 
guided  the  Moslems  to  their  prey  and  incited  them  to  this 
slaughter. 

The  pious  reader,  says  Fray  Antonio  Agapida,  will  be  slow 
to  believe  such  turpitude  ;  but  there  is  nothing  more  venom- 
ous than  the  rancor  of  an  apostate  priest  ;  for  the  best  things 
in  this  world,  when  corrupted,  become  the  worst  and  most 
baneful. 

Many  of  the  Christians  had  taken  refuge  within  the 
church,  and  had  barred  the  doors,  but  Oppas  commanded 
that  fire  should  be  set  to  the  portals,  threatening  to  put  every 
one  within  to  the  sword.  Happily  the  veteran  Taric  arrived 
just  in  time  to  stay  the  fury  of  this  reverend  renegado.  He 
ordered  the  trumpets  to  call  off  the  troops  from  the  carnage, 
and  extended  grace  to  all  the  surviving  inhabitants.  They 
were  permitted  to  remain  in  quiet  possession  of  their  homes 
and  effects,  paying  only  a  moderate  tribute;  and  they  were 
allowed  to  exercise  the  rites  of  their  religion  in  the  existing 
churches,  to  the  number  of  seven,  but  were  prohibited  from 
erecting  any  others.  Those  who  preferred  to  leave  the  city 
were  suffered  to  depart  in  safety,  but  not  to  take  with  them 
any  of  their  wealth. 

Immense  spoil  was  found  by  Taric  in  the  alcazar,  or  royal 
castle,  situated  on  a  rocky  eminence,  in  the  highest  part  of 
the  city.  Among  the  regalia  treasured  up  in  a  secret  cham- 
ber were  twenty-five  regal  crowns  of  fine  gold,  garnished  with 
jacynths,  amethysts,  diamonds,  and  other  precious  stones. 
These  were  the  crowns  of  the  different  Gothic  kings  who 
had  reigned  in  Spain;  it  having  been  the  usage,  on  the  death 
*  *  *22  VOL.  I. 


506  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$tor>  Irvir>$ 

of  each  king,  to  deposit  his  crown  in  this  treasury,  inscribing 
on  it  his  name  and  age.* 

When  Taric  was  thus  in  possession  of  the  city,  the  Jews 
came  to  him  in  procession,  with  songs  and  dances  and  the 
sound  of  timbrel  and  psaltery,  hailing  him  as  their  lord,  and 
reminding  him  of  his  promises. 

The  son  of  Ishmael  kept  his  word  with  the  children  of 
Israel;  they  were  protected  in  the  possession  of  all  their 
wealth  and  the  exercise  of  their  religion,  and  were,  more- 
over, rewarded  with  jewels  of  gold  and  jewels  of  silver,  and 
much  moneys,  f 

A  subsequent  expedition  was  led  by  Taric  against  Guada- 
laxara,  which  surrendered  without  resistance;  he  moreover 
captured  the  city  of  Medina  Celi,  where  he  found  an  inesti- 
mable table  which  had  formed  a  part  of  the  spoil  taken  at 
Rome  by  Alaric,  at  the  time  that  the  sacred  city  was  con- 
quered by  the  Goths.  It  was  composed  of  one  single  and 
entire  emerald,  and  possessed  talismanic  powers;  for  tradi- 
tions affirm  that  it  was  the  work  of  genii,  and  had  been 
wrought  by  them  for  King  Solomon  the  wise,  the  son  of 
David.  This  marvelous  relic  was  carefully  preserved  by 
Taric,  as  the  most  precious  of  all  his  spoils,  being  intended 
by  him  as  a  present  to  the  caliph;  and  in  commemoration  of 
it  the  city  was  called  by  the  Arabs  Medina  Almeyda;  that 
is  to  say,  "The  City  of  the  Table. "J 

Having  made  these  and  other  conquests  of  less  impor- 


*  Conde.  Hist,  de  las  Arabes  en  Espana,  c.  12. 

f  The  stratagem  of  the  Jews  of  Toledo  is  recorded  briefly  by  Bishop 
Lucas  de  Tuy,  in  his  chronicle,  but  is  related  at  large  in  the  chronicle 
of  the  Moor  Rasis. 

\  According  to  Arabian  legends,  this  table  was  a  mirror  revealing 
all  great  events ;  insomuch  that  by  looking  on  it  the  possessor  might 
behold  battles  and  sieges  and  feats  of  chivalry,  and  all  actions  worthy 
of  renown ;  and  might  thus  ascertain  the  truth  of  all  historic  transac- 
tions. It  was  a  mirror  of  history,  therefore,  and  had  very  probably 
aided  King  Solomon  in  acquiring  that  prodigious  knowledge  and  wis- 
dom for  which  he  was  renowned. 


Ce<$eo<d8  of  tt?e  <?oijque»t  of  Spair?  507 

tance,  and  having  collected  great  quantities  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver, and  rich  stuffs,  and  precious  stones.  Taric  returned  with 
his  booty  to  the  royal  city  of  Toledo. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

MUZ  A   BEN  NOSIER;    HIS    ENTRANCE    INTO    SPAIN,    AND 
CAPTURE   OF  CARMONA 

LET  us  leave  for  a  season  the  bold  Taric  in  his  triumph- 
ant progress  from  city  to  city,  while  we  turn  our  eyes  to 
Muza  ben  Nosier,  the  renowned  emir  of  Almagreb,  and  the 
commander-in-chief  of  the  Moslem  forces  of  the  west.  When 
that  jealous  chieftain  had  dispatched  his  letter  commanding 
Taric  to  pause  and  await  his  coming,  he  immediately  made 
every  preparation  to  enter  Spain  with  a  powerful  re-enforce- 
ment, and  to  take  command  of  the  conquering  army.  He 
left  his  eldest  son,  Abdalasis,  in  Caervan,  with  authority 
over  Almagreb,  or  Western  Africa.  This  Abdalasis  was  in 
the  flower  of  his  youth,  and  beloved  by  the  soldiery  for  the 
magnanimity  and  the  engaging  affability  which  graced  his 
courage. 

Muza  ben  Nosier  crossed  the  strait  of  Hercules  with  a 
chosen  force  of  ten  thousand  horse  and  eight  thousand  foot; 
Arabs  and  Africans.  He  was  accompanied  by,  his  two  sons, 
Meruan  and  Abdelola,  and  by  numerous  illustrious  Arabian 
cavaliers  of  the  tribe  of  the  Koreish.  He  landed  his  shining 
legions  on  the  coast  of  Andalusia,  and  pitched  his  tents  near 
to  the  Gruadiana.  There  first  he  received  intelligence  of  the 
disobedience  of  Taric  to  his  orders,  and  that,  without  wait- 
ing his  arrival,  the  impetuous  chieftain  had  continued  his 
career,  and  with  his  light  Arab  squadrons  had  overrun  and 
subdued  the  noblest  provinces  and  cities  of  the  kingdom. 

The  jealous  spirit  of  Muza  was  still  more  exasperated  by 
these  tidings;  he  looked  upon  Taric  no  longer  as  a  friend 
and  coadjutor,  but  as  an  invidious  rival,  the  decided  enemy 


508  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii)<Jtoo 

of  his  glory ;  and  he  determined  on  his  ruin.  His  first  con- 
sideration, however,  was  to  secure  to  himself  a  share  in 
the  actual  conquest  of  the  land  before  it  should  be  entirely 
subjugated. 

Taking  guides,  therefore,  from  among  his  Christian  cap- 
tives, he  set  out  to  subdue  such  parts  of  the  country  as  had 
not  been  visited  by  Taric.  The  first  place  which  he  assailed 
was  the  ancient  city  of  Carmona;  it  was  not  of  great  magni- 
tude, but  was  fortified  with  high  walls  and  massive  towers, 
and  many  of  the  fugitives  of  the  late  army  had  thrown  them- 
selves into  it. 

The  Goths  had  by  this  time  recovered  from  their  first 
panic ;  they  had  become  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  Moslem 
troops,  and  their  native  courage  had  been  roused  by  danger. 
Shortly  after  the  Arabs  had  encamped  before  their  walls,  a 
band  of  cavaliers  made  a  sudden  sally  one  morning  before 
the  break  of  day,  fell  upon  the  enemy  by  surprise,  killed 
above  three  hundred  of  them  in  their  tents,  and  effected  their 
retreat  into  the  city;  leaving  twenty  of  their  number  dead, 
covered  with  honorable  wounds,  and  in  the  very  center  of 
the  camp. 

On  the  following  day  they  made  another  sally,  and  fell 
on  a  different  quarter  of  the  encampment;  but  the  Arabs 
were  on  their  guard,  and  met  them  with  superior  numbers. 
After  fighting  fiercely  for  a  time,  they  were  routed,  and  fled 
full  speed  for  the  city,  with  the  Arabs  hard  upon  their  traces. 
The  guards  within  feared  to  open  the  gate,  lest  with  their 
friends  they  should  admit  a  torrent  of  enemies.  Seeing 
themselves  thus  shut  out,  the  fugitives  determined  to  die  like 
brave  soldiers  rather  than  surrender.  Wheeling  suddenly 
round,  they  opened  a  path  through  the  host  of  their  pur- 
suers, fought  their  way  back  to  the  camp,  and  raged  about 
it  with  desperate  fury  until  they  were  all  slain,  after  having 
killed  above  eight  hundred  of  the  enemy.  * 

Muza  now  ordered  that  the  place  should  be  taken  by 

*  Abulcasim.     Perdida  de  Espana,  L.  1,  c.  13. 


Ce<Jepd«  of  tl?e  <?opquesfc  of  Spaii?  509 

storm.  The  Moslems  assailed  it  on  all  sides,  but  were  vig- 
orously resisted;  many  were  slain  by  showers  of  stones, 
arrows,  and  boiling  pitch,  and  many  who  had  mounted  with 
scaling  ladders  were  thrown  headlong  from  the  battlements. 
The  alcayde,  Galo,  aided  solely  by  two  men,  defended  a 
tower  and  a  portion  of  the  wall;  killing  and  wounding  with 
a  crossbow  more  than  eighty  of  the  enemy.  The  attack 
lasted  above  half  a  day,  when  the  Moslems  were  repulsed 
with  the  loss  of  fifteen  hundred  men. 

Muza  was  astonished  and  exasperated  at  meeting  with 
such  formidable  resistance  from  so  small  a  city ;  for  it  was 
one  of  the  few  places,  during  that  memorable  conquest, 
where  the  Gothic  valor  shone  forth  with  its  proper  luster. 
While  the  Moslem  army  lay  encamped  before  the  place,  it 
was  joined  by  Magued  the  renegade,  and  Count  Julian  the 
traitor,  with  one  thousand  horsemen ;  most  of  them  recreant 
Christians,  base  betrayers  of  their  country,  and  more  sav- 
age in  their  warfare  than  the  Arabs  of  the  desert.  To  find 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  Muza,  and  to  evince  his  devotion  to  the 
cause,  the  count  undertook,  by  wily  stratagem,  to  put  this 
gallant  city  in  his  power. 

One  evening,  just  at  twilight,  a  number  of  Christians, 
habited  as  traveling  merchants,  arrived  at  one  of  the  gates, 
conducting  a  train  of  mules  laden  with  arms  and  warlike 
munitions.  "Open  the  gate  quickly,"  cried  they,  "we  bring 
supplies  for  the  garrison,  but  the  Arabs  have  discovered,  and 
are  in  pursuit  of  us."  The  gate  was  thrown  open,  the  mer- 
chants entered  with  their  beasts  of  burden,  and  were  joyfully 
received.  Meat  and  drink  were  placed  before  them,  and  after 
they  had  refreshed  themselves  they  retired  to  the  quarters 
allotted  to  them. 

These  pretended  merchants  were  Count  Julian  and  a 
number  of  his  partisans.  At  the  hour  of  midnight  they  stole 
forth  silently,  and  assembling  together,  proceeded  to  what 
was  called  the  Gate  of  Cordova.  Here  setting  suddenly 
upon  the  unsuspecting  guards,  they  put  them  to  the  edge 
of  the  sword,  and  throwing  open  the  gates,  admitted  a  great 


510  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii?$toi> 

body  of  the  Arabs.  The  inhabitants  were  roused  from  their 
sleep  by  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet,  and  the  clattering  of 
horses.  The  Arabs  scoured  the  streets;  a  horrible  massacre 
was  commenced,  in  which  none  were  spared  but  such  of  the 
females  as  were  young  and  beautiful,  and  fitted  to  grace  the 
harems  of  the  conquerors.  The  arrival  of  Muza  put  an  end 
to  the  pillage  and  the  slaughter,  and  he  granted  favorable 
terms  to  the  survivors.  Thus  the  valiant  little  city  of  Car- 
mona,  after  nobly  resisting  the  open  assaults  of  the  infidels, 
fell  a  victim  to  the  treachery  of  apostate  Christians.* 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

MUZA   MARCHES   AGAINST   THE   CITY   OF   SEVILLE 

AFTER  the  capture  of  Carmona,  Muza  descended  into  a 
noble  plain,  covered  with  fields  of  grain,  with  orchards  and 
gardens,  through  which  glided  the  soft  flowing  Guadalquivir. 
On  the  borders  of  the  river  stood  the  ancient  city  of  Seville, 
surrounded  by  Roman  walls,  and  defended  by  its  golden 
tower.  Understanding  from  his  spies  that  the  city  had  lost 
the  flower  of  its  youth  in  the  battle  of  the  Guadalete,  Muza 
anticipated  but  a  faint  resistance.  A  considerable  force, 
however,  still  remained  within  the  place,  and  what  they 
wanted  in  numbers  they  made  up  in  resolution.  For  some 
days  they  withstood  the  assaults  of  the  enemy,  and  defended 
their  walls  with  great  courage.  Their  want  of  warlike  mu- 
nitions, however,  and  the  superior  force  and  skill  of  the  be- 
sieging army,  left  them  no  hope  of  being  able  to  hold  out 
long.  There  were  two  youthful  cavaliers  of  uncommon  valor 
in  the  city.  They  assembled  the  warriors  and  addressed 
them.  "We  cannot  save  the  city,"  said  they,  "but  at  least 
we  may  save  ourselves,  and  preserve  so  many  strong  arms 
for  the  service  of  our  country.  Let  us  cut  our  way  through 

*  Cron.  gen.  de  Espana  por  Alonzo  el  Sabio,  P.  3,  c.  1. 


Ce<$ei)d»  of  tl?e  Qorjquest  of  Spafp  511 

the  infidel  force  and  gain  some  secure  fortress,  from  whence 
we  may  return  with  augmented  numbers  for  the  rescue  of 
the  city." 

The  advice  of  the  young  cavaliers  was  adopted.  In  the 
dead  of  the  night  the  garrison  assembled  to  the  number  of 
about  three  thousand;  the  most  part  mounted  on  horseback. 
Suddenly  sallying  from  one  of  the  gates,  they  rushed  in  a 
compact  body  upon  the  camp  of  the  Saracens,  which  was 
negligently  guarded,  for  the  Moslems  expected  no  such  act 
of  desperation.  The  camp  was  a  scene  of  great  carnage  and 
confusion ;  many  were  slain  on  both  sides ;  the  two  valiant 
leaders  of  the  Christians  fell  covered  with  wounds,  but  the 
main  body  succeeded  in  forcing  their  way  through  the  center 
of  the  army,  and  in  making  their  retreat  to  Beja  in  Lusitania. 

Muza  was  at  a  loss  to  know  the  meaning  of  this  desperate 
sally.  In  the  morning  he  perceived  the  gates  of  the  city 
wide  open.  A  number  of  ancient  and  venerable  men  pre- 
sented themselves  at  his  tent,  offering  submission  and  im- 
ploring mercy,  for  none  were  left  in  the  place  but  the  old, 
the  infirm,  and  the  miserable.  Muza  listened  to  them  with 
compassion,  and  granted  their  prayer,  and  the  only  tribute 
he  exacted  was  three  measures  of  wheat  and  three  of  barley 
from  each  house  or  family.  He  placed  a  garrison  of  Arabs 
in  the  city,  and  left  there  a  number  of  Jews  to  form  a  body 
of  population.  Having  thus  secured  two  important  places  in 
Andalusia,  he  passed  the  boundaries  of  the  province,  and 
advanced  with  great  martial  pomp  into  Lusitania. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

MUZA   BESIEGES   THE   CITY   OF   MERIDA 

THE  army  of  Muza  was  now  augmented  to  about  eighteen 
thousand  horsemen,  but  he  took  with  him  but  few  foot-sol- 
diers, leaving  them  to  garrison  the  conquered  towns.  He 
met  with  no  resistance  on  his  entrance  into  Lusitania.  City 
after  city  laid  its  keys  at  his  feet,  and  implored  to  be  received 


51 2  U/orKs  of  U/as^i^tor?  Iruii?<$ 

in  peaceful  vassalage.  One  city  alone  prepared  for  vigorous 
defense,  the  ancient  Merida,  a  place  of  great  extent,  un- 
counted riches,  and  prodigious  strength.  A  noble  Goth 
named  Sacarus  was  the  governor;  a  man  of  consummate 
wisdom,  patriotism,  and  valor.  Hearing  of  the  approach  of 
the  invaders,  he  gathered  within  the  walls  all  the  people  of 
the  surrounding  country,  with  their  horses  and  mules,  their 
flocks  and  herds  and  most  precious  effects.  To  insure  for  a 
long  time  a  supply  of  bread,  he  filled  the  magazines  with 
grain,  and  erected  windmills  on  the  churches.  This  done, 
he  laid  waste  the  surrounding  country  to  a  great  extent,  so 
that  a  besieging  army  would  have  to  encamp  in  a  desert. 

When  Muza  came  in  sight  of  this  magnificent  city  he  was 
struck  with  admiration.  He  remained  for  some  time  gazing 
in  silence  upon  its  mighty  walls  and  lordly  towers,  its  vast 
extent,  and  the  stately  palaces  and  temples  with  which  it 
was  adorned.  "Surely,"  cried  he,  at  length,  "all  the  people 
of  the  earth  have  combined  their  power  and  skill  to  embel- 
lish and  aggrandize  this  city.  Allah  Achbar!  Happy  will 
he  be  who  shall  have  the  glory  of  making  such  a  conquest!" 

Seeing  that  a  place  so  populous  and  so  strongly  fortified 
would  be  likejy  to  maintain  a  long  and  formidable  resistance, 
he  sent  messengers  to  Africa  to  his  son  Abdalasis,  to  collect 
all  the  forces  that  could  be  spared  from  the  garrisons  of 
Mauritania,  and  to  hasten  and  re-enforce  him. 

While  Muza  was  forming  his  encampment,  deserters  from 
the  city  brought  him  word  that  a  chosen  band  intended  to 
sally  forth  at  midnight  and  surprise  his  camp.  The  Arab 
commander  immediately  took  measures  to  receive  them  with 
a  counter  surprise.  Having  formed  his  plan,  and  communi- 
cated it  to  his  principal  officers,  he  ordered  that,  throughout 
the  day,  there  should  be  kept  up  an  appearance  of  negligent 
confusion  in  his  encampment.  The  outposts  were  feebly 
guarded ;  fires  were  lighted  in  various  places,  as  if  prepar- 
ing for  feasting;  bursts  of  music  and  shouts  of  revelry  re- 
sounded from  different  quarters,  and  the  whole  camp  seemed 
to  be  rioting  in  careless  security  on  the  plunder  of  the  Iand0 


of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spafi?  513 

As  the  night  advanced,  the  fires  were  gradually  extinguished, 
and  silence  ensued,  as  if  the  soldiery  had  sunk  into  deep  sleep 
after  the  carousal. 

In  the  meantime,  bodies  of  troops  had  been  secretly  and 
silently  marched  to  re-enforce  the  outposts ;  and  the  renegado 
Magued,  with  a  numerous  force,  had  formed  an  ambuscade 
in  a  deep  stone  quarry  by  which  the  Christians  would  have 
to  pass.  These  preparations  being  made,  they  awaited  the 
approach  of  the  enemy  in  breathless  silence. 

About  midnight,  the  chosen  force  intended  for  the  sally 
assembled,  and  the  command  was  confided  to  Count  Ten- 
dero,  a  Gothic  cavalier  of  tried  prowess.  After  having  heard 
a  solemn  mass  and  received  the  benediction  of  the  priest,  they 
marched  out  of  the  gate  with  all  possible  silence.  They  were 
suffered  to  pass  the  ambuscade  in  the  quarry  without  molesta- 
tion :  as  they  approached  the  Moslem  camp,  everything  ap- 
peared quiet,  for  the  foot-soldiers  were  concealed  in  slopes 
and  hollows,  and  every  Arab  horseman  lay  in  his  armor  be- 
side his  steed.  The  sentinels  on  the  outposts  waited  until 
the  Christians  were  close  at  hand,  and  then  fled  in  apparent 
consternation. 

Count  Tendero  gave  the  signal  for  assault,  and  the  Chris- 
tians rushed  confidently  forward.  In  an  instant  an  uproar 
of  drums,  trumpets,  and  shrill  war-cries  burst  forth  from 
every  side.  An  army  seemed  to  spring  up  from  the  earth; 
squadrons  of  horse  came  thundering  on  them  in  front,  while 
the  quarry  poured  forth  legions  of  armed  warriors  in  their 
rear. 

The  noise  of  the  terrific  conflict  that  took  place  was  heard 
on  the  city  walls,  and  answered  by  shouts  of  exultation,  for 
the  Christians  thought  it  rose  from  the  terror  and  confusion 
of  the  Arab  camp.  In  a  little  while,  however,  they  were 
undeceived  by  fugitives  from  the  fight,  aghast  with  terror, 
and  covered  with  wounds.  "Hell  itself,"  cried  they,  "is  on 
the  side  of  these  infidels ;  the  earth  casts  forth  warriors  and 
steeds  to  aid  them.  We  have  fought,  not  with  men,  but 
devils!" 


514  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii)<ftoi?  Irvirj$ 

The  greater  part  of  the  chosen  troops  who  had  sallied 
were  cut  to  pieces  in  that  scene  of  massacre,  for  they  had 
been  confounded  -by  the  tempest  of  battle  which  suddenly 
broke  forth  around  them.  Count  Tendero  fought  with  des- 
perate valor  and  fell  covered  with  wounds.  His  body  was 
found  the  next  morning,  lying  among  the  slain,  and  trans- 
pierced with  half  a  score  of  lances.  The  renegado  Magued 
cut  off  his  head  and  tied  it  to  the  tail  of  his  horse,  and  re- 
paired with  this  savage  trophy  to  the  tent  of  Muza ;  but  the 
hostility  of  the  Arab  general  was  of  a  less  malignant  kind. 
He  ordered  that  the  head  and  body  should  be  placed  together 
upon  a  bier  and  treated  with  becoming  reverence. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  a  train  of  priests  and  friars  came 
forth  from  the  city  to  request  permission  to  seek  for  the  body 
of  the  count.  Muza  delivered  it  to  them,  with  many  soldier- 
like encomiums  on  the  valor  of  that  good  cavalier.  The 
priests  covered  it  with  a  pall  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  bore  it 
back  in  melancholy  procession  to  the  city,  where  it  was  re- 
ceived with  loud  lamentations. 

The  siege  was  now  pressed  with  great  vigor,  and  repeated 
assaults  were  made,  but  in  vain.  Muza  saw  at  length  that 
the  walls  were  too  high  to  be  scaled,  and  the  gates  too  strong 
to  be  burst  open  without  the  aid  of  engines,  and  he  desisted 
from  the  attack  until  machines  for  the  purpose  could  be  con- 
structed. The  governor  suspected  from  this  cessation  of  ac- 
tive warfare  that  the  enemy  flattered  themselves  to  reduce 
the  place  by  famine;  he  caused,  therefore,  large  baskets  of 
bread  to  be  thrown  from  the  wall,  and  sent  a  messenger  to 
Muza  to  inform  him  that  if  his  army  should  be  in  want  of 
bread  he  would  supply  it,  having  sufficient  corn  in  his  grana- 
ries for  a  ten  years'  siege.* 

The  citizens,  however,  did  not  possess  the  undaunted  spirit 
of  their  governor.  When  they  found  that  the  Moslems  were 
constructing  tremendous  engines  for  the  destruction  of  their 
walls,  they  lost  all  courage,  and,  surrounding  the  governor 

*  Bleda  Cronica,  L.  2,  c.  11. 


Ce<$ei?d8  of  tl?e  <?oi)que»t  of  Spaii)  515 

in  a  clamorous  multitude,  compelled  him  to  send  forth  persons 
to  capitulate. 

The  embassadors  came  into  the  presence  of  Muza  with 
awe,  for  they  expected  to  find  a  fierce  and  formidable  warrior 
in  one  who  had  filled  the  land  with  terror ;  but  Jo  their  as- 
tonishment they  beheld  an  ancient  and  venerable  man,  with 
white  hair,  a  snowy  beard,  and  a  pale  emaciated  counte- 
nance. He  had  passed  the  previous  night  without  sleep, 
and  had  been  all  day  in  the  field;  he  was  exhausted,  there- 
fore, by  watchfulness  and  fatigue,  and  his  garments  were 
covered  with  dust. 

"What  a  devil  of  a  man  is  this,"  murmured  the  embas- 
sadors, one  to  another,  "to  undertake  such  a  siege  when  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave.  Let  us  defend  our  city  the  best  way 
we  can;  surely  we  can  hold  out  longer  than  the  life  of  this 
gray-beard." 

They  returned  to  the  city,  therefore,  scoffing  at  an  invader 
who  seemed  fitter  to  lean  on  a  crutch  than  wield  a  lance ;  and 
the  terms  offered  by  Muza,  which  would  otherwise  have  been 
thought  favorable,  were  scornfully  rejected  by  the  inhabit- 
ants. A  few  days  put  an  end  to  this  mistaken  confidence. 
Abdalasis,  the  son  of  Muza,  arrived  from  Africa  at  the  head 
of  his  re-enforcement;  he  brought  seven  thousand  horsemen 
and  a  host  of  Barbary  archers,  and  made  a  glorious  display 
as  he  marched  into  the  camp.  The  arrival  of  this  youthful 
warrior  was  hailed  with  great  acclamations,  so  much  had  he 
won  the  hearts  of  the  soldiery  by  the  frankness,  the  suavity, 
and  generosity  of  his  conduct.  Immediately  after  his  arrival 
a  grand  assault  was  made  upon  the  city,  and  several  of  the 
huge  battering  engines  being  finished,  they  were  wheeled  up 
and  began  to  thunder  against  the  walls. 

The  unsteady  populace  were  again  seized  with  terror,  and, 
surrounding  their  governor  with  fresh  clamors,  obliged  him 
to  send  forth  embassadors  a  second  time  to  treat  of  a  sur- 
render. When  admitted  to  the  presence  of  Muza,  the  em- 
bassadors could  scarcely  believe  their  eyes,  or  that  this  was 
the  same  withered,  white-headed  old  man  of  whom  they  had 


516  U/or^s  of  U/asJpii^tor; 

lately  spoken  with  scoffing.  His  hair  and  beard  were  tinged 
of  a  ruddy  brown ;  his  countenance  was  refreshed  by  repose 
and  flushed  with  indignation,  and  he  appeared  a  man  in  the 
matured  vigor  of  his  days.  The  embassadors  were  struck 
with  awe:  "Surely,"  whispered  they,  one  to  the  other,  "this 
must  be  either  a  devil  or  a  magician,  who  can  thus  make 
himself  old  and  young  at  pleasure." 

Muza  received  them  haughtily.  "Hence,"  said  he,  "and 
tell  your  people  I  grant  them  the  same  terms  I  have  already 
proffered,  provided  the  city  be  instantly  surrendered;  but,  by 
the  head  of  Mahomet,  if  there  be  any  further  delay,  not  one 
mother's  son  of  ye  shall  receive  mercy  at  my  hands!" 

The  deputies  returned  into  the  city  pale  and  dismayed. 
"Go  forth!  go  forth!"  cried  they,  "and  accept  whatever 
terms  are  offered;  of  what  avail  is  it  to  fight  against  men 
who  can  renew  their  youth  at  pleasure.  Behold,  we  left  the 
leader  of  the  infidels  an  old  and  feeble  man,  and  to-day  we 
find  him  youthful  and  vigorous."* 

The  place  was,  therefore,  surrendered  forthwith,  and  Muza 
entered  it  in  triumph.  His  terms  were  merciful.  Those 
who  chose  to  remain  were  protected  in  persons,  possessions 
and  religion ;  he  took  the  property  of  those  only  who  aban- 
doned the  city  or  had  fallen  in  battle;  together  with  all  arms 
and  horses,  and  the  treasures  and  ornaments  of  the  churches. 
Among  these  sacred  spoils  was  found  a  cup  made  of  a  single 
pearl,  which  a  king  of  Spain,  in  ancient  times,  had  brought 
from  the  temple  of  Jerusalem  when  it  was  destroyed  by 
Nebucadonozer.  This  precious  relic  was  sent  by  Muza  to  the 
caliph,  and  was  placed  in  the  principal  mosque  of  the  city  of 
Damascus,  f 

Muza  knew  how  to  esteem  merit  even  in  an  enemy.  "When 
Sacarus,  the  governor  of  Merida,  appeared  before  him,  he 
lauded  him  greatly  for  the  skill  and  courage  he  had  displayed 

*  Conde,  p.  1,  c.  13.  Ambrosio  de  Morales.  N.B. — In  the  chronicle 
of  Spain,  composed  by  order  of  Alonzo  the  Wise,  this  anecdote  is  given 
as  having  happened  at  the  siege  of  Seville. 

f  Mannol.  descrip.  de  Africa,  T.  1,  L.  2. 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tl?e  <?oi}quest  of  Spaip  517 

in  the  defense  of  his  city ;  and,  taking  off  his  own  scimiter, 
which  was  of  great  value,  girded  it  upon  him  with  his  own 
hands.  "Wear  this,"  said  he,  "as  a  poor  memorial  of  my 
admiration ;  a  soldier  of  such  virtue  and  valor  is  worthy  of 
far  higher  honors." 

He  would  have  engaged  the  governor  in  his  service,  or 
have  persuaded  him  to  remain  in  the  city,  as  an  illustrious 
vassal  of  the  caliph,  but  the  noble-minded  Sacarus  refused  to 
bend  to  the  yoke  of  the  conquerors ;  nor  could  he  bring  him- 
self to  reside  contentedly  in  his  country,  when  subjected  to 
the  domination  of  the  infidels.  Gathering  together  all  those 
who  chose  to  accompany  him  into  exile,  he  embarked  to  seek 
some  country  where  he  might  live  in  peace  and  in  the  free 
exercise  of  his  religion.  What  shore  these  ocean  pilgrims 
landed  upon  has  never  been  revealed;  but  tradition  vaguely 
gives  us  to  believe  that  it  was  some  unknown  island  far  hi 
the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic.* 


CHAPTER  TEN 

EXPEDITION  OP  ABDALASIS  AGAINST  SEVILLE  AND  THE 

"LAND  OF  TADMIK." 

AFTER  the  capture  of  Merida,  Muza  gave  a  grand  ban- 
quet to  his  captains  and  distinguished  warriors,  in  that  mag- 
nificent city.  At  this  martial  feast  were  many  Arab  cava- 
liers who  had  been  present  in  various  battles,  and  they  vied 
with  each  other  in  recounting  the  daring  enterprises  in  which 
they  had  been  engaged,  and  the  splendid  triumphs  they  had 
witnessed.  While  they  talked  with  ardor  and  exultation, 
Abdalasis,  the  son  of  Muza,  alone  kept  silence,  and  sat  with  a 
dejected  countenance.  At  length,  when  there  was  a  pause, 
he  turned  to  his  father  and  addressed  him  with  modest 
earnestness.  "My  lord  and  father,"  said  he,  "I  blush  to 

*  Abuloasim,  Perdida  de  Espana,  L.  1,  c.  13. 


518  U/orKs  of 

hear  your  warriors  recount  the  toils  and  dangers  they  have 
passed,  while  I  have  done  nothing  to  entitle  me  to  their  com- 
panionship. When  I  return  to  Egypt  and  present  myself 
before  the  caliph,  he  will  ask  me  of  my  services  in  Spain; 
what  battle  I  have  gained ;  what  town  or  castle  I  have  taken. 
How  shall  I  answer  him?  If  you  love  me,  then,  as  your  son, 
give  me  a  command,  intrust  to  me  an  enterprise,  and  let  me 
acquire  a  name  worthy  to  be  mentioned  among  .men." 

The  eyes  of  Muza  kindled  with  joy  at  finding  Abdalasis 
thus  ambitious  of  renown  in  arms.  "Allah  be  praised!"  ex- 
claimed he,  "the  heart  of  my  son  is  in  the  right  place.  It  is 
becoming  in  youth  to  look  upward  and  be  aspiring.  Thy 
desire,  Abdalasia,  shall  be  gratified." 

An  opportunity  at  that  very  time  presented  itself  to  prove 
the  prowess  and  discretion  of  the  youth.  During  the  siege 
of  Merida,  the  Christian  troops  which  had  taken  refuge  at 
Beja  had  re-enforced  themselves  from  Penaflor,  and  suddenly 
returning,  had  presented  themselves  before  the  gates  of  the 
city  of  Seville.*  Certain  of  the  Christian  inhabitants  threw 
open  the  gates  and  admitted  them.  The  troops  rushed  to  the 
alcazar,  took  it  by  surprise,  and  put  many  of  the  Moslem 
garrison  to  the  sword;  the  residue  made  their  escape,  and 
fled  to  the  Arab  camp  before  Merida,  leaving  Seville  in  the 
hands  of  the  Christians. 

The  veteran  Muza,  now  that  the  siege  of  Merida  was  at 
an  end,  was  meditating  the  recapture  and  punishment  of 
Seville,  at  the  very  time  when  Abdalasis  addressed  him. 
"Behold,  my  son,"  exclaimed  he,  "an  enterprise  worthy  of 
thy  ambition.  Take  with  thee  all  the  troops  thou  hast 
brought  from  Africa;  reduce  the  city  of  Seville  again  to 
subjection,  and  plant  thy  standard  upon  its  alcazar.  But  stop 
not  there:  carry  thy  conquering  sword  into  the  southern 
parts  of  Spam ;  thou  wilt  find  there  a  harvest  of  glory  yet  tc 
be  reaped." 

Abdalasis  lost  no  time  in  departing  upon  this  enterprise. 

*  Espinosa.  Antq.  y  Grand,  de  Seville,  L.  2,  c.  3. 


Ce<$ei>ds  of  tl?e  <?oi)quest  of  SpaiQ  519 

He  took  with  him  Count  Julian,  Magued  el  Rumi,  and  the 
Bishop  Oppas,  that  he  might  benefit  by  their  knowledge  of 
the  country.  When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  fair  city  of 
Seville,  seated  like  a  queen  in  the  midst  of  its  golden  plain, 
with  the  Guadalquivir  flowing  beneath  its  walls,  he  gazed 
upon  it  with  the  admiration  of  a  lover,  and  lamented  in  his 
soul  that  he  had  to  visit  it  as  an  avenger.  His  troops,  how- 
ever, regarded  it  with  wrathful  eyes,  thinking  only  of  its 
rebellion  and  of  the  massacre  of  their  countrymen  hi  the 
alcazar. 

The  principal  people  of  the  city  had  taken  no  part  in  this 
gallant  but  fruitless  insurrection;  and  now,  when  they  be- 
held the  army  of  Abdalasis  encamped  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Guadalquivir,  would  fain  have  gone  forth  to  make  explana. 
tions  and  intercede  for  mercy.  The  populace,  however,  for- 
bade any  one  to  leave  the  city,  and,  barring  the  gates,  pre- 
pared to  defend  themselves  to  the  last. 

The  place  was  attacked  with  resistless  fury.  The  gates 
were  soon  burst  open;  the  Moslems  rushed  in,  panting  for 
revenge.  They  confined  not  their  slaughter  to  the  soldiery 
in  the  alcazar,  but  roamed  through  every  street,  confounding 
the  innocent  with  the  guilty  in  one  bloody  massacre,  and  it 
was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  Abdalasis  could  at  length 
succeed  in  staying  their  sanguinary  career.* 

The  son  of  Muza  proved  himself  as  mild  in  conquest  as 
he  had  been  intrepid  in  assault.  The  moderation  and  benig- 
nity of  his  conduct  soothed  the  terrors  of  the  vanquished,  and 
his  wise  precautions  restored  tranquillity.  Having  made 
proper  regulations  for  the  protection  of  the  inhabitants,  he 
left  a  strong  garrison  in  the  place  to  prevent  any  future  in- 
surrection, and  then  departed  on  the  further  prosecution  of 
his  enterprise. 

Wherever  he  went  his  arms  were  victorious ;  and  his  vic- 
tories were  always  characterized  by  the  same  magnanimity. 
At  length  he  arrived  on  the  confines  of  that  beautiful  region 


*  Conde,  p.  1,  c.  14. 


520  U/orKs  of  U/asbip$top 

comprising  lofty  and  precipitous  mountains  and  rich  and  de- 
licious plains,  afterward  known  by  the  name  of  the  kingdom 
of  Murcia.  All  this  part  of  the  country  was  defended  by  the 
veteran  Theodomir,  who,  by  skillful  management,  had  saved 
a  remnant  of  his  forces  after  the  defeat  on  the  banks  of  the 
Guadalete. 

Theodomir  was  a  stanch  warrior,  but  a  wary  and  prudent 
man.  He  had  experienced  the  folly  of  opposing  the  Arabs 
in  open  field,  where  their  cavalry  and  armor  gave  them  such 
superiority;  on  their  .approach,  therefore,  he  assembled  all 
his  people  capable  of  bearing  arms,  and  took  possession  of 
the  cliffs  and  mountain  passes.  "Here,"  said  he,  "a  simple 
goatherd,  who  can  hurl  down  rocks  and  stones,  is  as  good  as 
a  warrior,  armed  in  proof."  In  this  way  he  checked  and 
harassed  the  Moslem  army  in  all  its  movements ;  showering 
down  missiles  upon  it  from  overhanging  precipices,  and  way- 
laying it  in  narrow  and  rugged  defiles,  where  a  few  raw 
troops  could  make  stand  against  a  host. 

Theodomir  was  in  a  fair  way  to  baffle  his  foes  and  oblige 
them  to  withdraw  from  his  territories;  unfortunately,  how- 
ever, the  wary  veteran  had  two  sons  with  him,  young  men 
of  hot  and  heady  valor,  who  considered  all  this  prudence  of 
their  father  as  savoring  of  cowardice,  and  who  were  anxious 
to  try  their  prowess  in  the  open  field.  "What  glory,"  said 
they,  "is  to  be  gained  by  destroying  an  enemy  in  this  way, 
from  the  covert  of  rocks  and  thickets?" 

"You  talk  like  young  men, ' '  replied  the  veteran.  ' ' Glory 
is  a  prize  one  may  fight  for  abroad,  but  safety  is  the  object 
when  the  enemy  is  at  the  door." 

One  day,  however,  the  young  men  succeeded  in  drawing 
down  their  father  into  the  plain.  Abdalasis  immediately 
seized  on  the  opportunity  and  threw  himself  between  the 
Goths  and  their  mountain  fastnesses.  Theodomir  saw  too 
late  the  danger  into  which  he  was  betrayed.  ' '  What  can  our 
raw  troops  do,"  said  he,  "against  those  squadrons  of  horse 
that  move  like  castles?  Let  us  make  a  rapid  retreat  to 
Orihuela  and  defend  ourselves  from  behind  its  walls. ' ' 


Ce$ei)d8  of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spaii?  521 

"Father,"  said  the  eldest  son,  "it  is  too  late  to  retreat ; 
remain  here  with  the  reserve  while  my  brother  and  I  ad- 
vance. Fear  nothing;  am  not  I  your  son,  and  would  I  not 
die  to  defend  you?" 

"In  truth,"  replied  the  veteran,  "I  have  my  doubts 
whether  you  are  my  son.  But  if  I  remain  here,  and  you 
should  all  be  killed,  where  then  would  be  my  protection? 
Come,"  added  he,  turning  to  the  second  son,  "I  trust  that 
thou  art  virtually  my  son ;  let  us  hasten  to  retreat  before  it 
is  too  late." 

"Father,"  replied  the  youngest,  "I  have  not  a  doubt  that 
I  am  honestly  and  thoroughly  your  son,  and  as  such  I  honor 
you;  but  I  owe  duty  likewise  to  my  mother,  and  when  I 
sallied  to  the  war  she  gave  me  her  blessing  as  long  as  I 
should  act  with  valor,  but  her  curse  should  I  prove  craven 
and  fly  the  field.  Fear  nothing,  father;  I  will  defend  you 
while  living,  and  even  after  you  are  dead.  You  shall  never 
fail  of  an  honorable  sepulture  among  your  kindred." 

"A  pestilence  on  ye  both,"  cried  Theodomir,  "for  a  brace 
of  misbegotten  madmen !  what  care  I,  think  ye,  where  ye 
lay  my  body  when  I  am  dead.  One  day's  existence  in  a 
hovel  is  worth  an  age  of  interment  in  a  marble  sepulcher. 
Come,  my  friends,"  said  he,  turning  to  his  principal  cava- 
liers, "let  us  leave  these  hot-headed  striplings  and  make  our 
retreat;  if  we  tarry  any  longer  the  enemy  will  be  upon  us." 

Upon  this  the  cavaliers  and  proud  hidalgoes  drew  up 
scornfully  and  tossed  their  heads:  "What  do  you  see  in  us," 
said  they,  "that  you  think  we  will  show  our  backs  to  the 
enemy?  Forward !  was  ever  the  good  old  Gothic  watchword, 
and  with  that  will  we  live  and  die!" 

"While  time  was  lost  hi  these  disputes,  the  Moslem  army 
kept  advancing,  until  retreat  was  no  longer  practicable.  The 
battle  was  tumultuous  and  bloody.  Theodomir  fought  like 
a  lion,  but  it  was  all  in  vain;  he  saw  his  two  sons  cut  down 
and  the  greater  part  of  their  rash  companions,  while  his  raw 
mountain  troops  fled  in  all  directions. 

Seeing  there  was  no  longer  any  hope,  he  seized  the  bridle 


522  U/orks  of  U/asl?ip$top 


of  a  favorite  page  who  was  near  him,  and  who  was  about 
spurring  for  the  mountains.  "Part  not  from  me,"  said  he, 
"but  do  thou  at  least  attend  to  my  counsel,  my  son;  and,  of 
a  truth,  I  believe  thou  art  my  son  ;  for  thou  art  the  offspring 
of  one  of  my  handmaids  who  was  kind  unto  me."  And 
indeed  the  youth  marvelously  resembled  him.  Turning  then 
the  reins  of  his  own  steed,  and  giving  him  the  spur,  he  fled 
amain  from  the  field,  followed  by  the  page  ;  nor  did  he  stop 
until  he  arrived  within  the  walls  of  Orihuela. 

Ordering  the  gates  to  be  barred  and  bolted,  he  prepared 
to  receive  the  enemy.  There  were  but  few  men  in  the  city 
capable  of  bearing  arms,  most  of  the  youth  having  fallen  in 
the  field.  He  caused  the  women,  therefore,  to  clothe  them- 
selves in  male  attire,  to  put  on  hats  and  helmets,  to  take  long 
reeds  in  their  hands  instead  of  lances,  and  to  cross  their  hair 
upon  their  chins  in  semblance  of  beards.  With  these  troops 
he  lined  the  walls  and  towers. 

It  was  about  the  hour  of  twilight  that  Abdalasis  ap- 
proached with  his  army,  but  he  paused  when  he  saw  the 
walls  so  numerously  garrisoned.  Then  Theodomir  took  a 
flag  of  truce  in  his  hand,  and  put  a  herald's  tabard  on  the 
page,  and  they  two  sallied  forth  to  capitulate,  and  were 
graciously  received  by  Abdalasis. 

"I  come,"  said  Theodomir,  "on  behalf  of  the  commander 
of  this  city  to  treat  for  terms  worthy  of  your  magnanimity 
and  of  his  dignity.  You  perceive  that  the  city  is  capable  of 
withstanding  a  long  siege,  but  he  is  desirous  of  sparing  the 
lives  of  his  soldiers.  Promise  that  the  inhabitants  shall  be 
at  liberty  to  depart  unmolested  with  their  property,  and  the 
city  will  be  delivered  up  to  you  to-morrow  morning  without 
a  blow  ;  otherwise  we  are  prepared  to  fight  until  not  a  man 
be  left." 

Abdalasis  was  well  pleased  to  get  so  powerful  a  place 
upon  such  easy  terms,  but  stipulated  that  the  garrison  should 
lay  down  their  arms.  To  this  Theodomir  readily  assented, 
with  the  exception,  however,  of  the  governor  and  his  retinue, 
which  was  granted  out  of  consideration  for  his  dignity.  The 


Ce<$epds  of  tl?e  <?or>que8t  of  Spalp  523 


articles  of  capitulation  were  then  drawn  out,  and,  when 
Abdalasis  had  affixed  his  name  and  seal,  Theodomir  took  the 
pen  and  wrote  his  signature.  "Behold  in  me,"  said  he,  "the 
governor  of  the  city!" 

Abdalasis  was  pleased  with  the  hardihood  of  the  com- 
mander of  the  place  in  thus  venturing  personally  into  his 
power,  and  entertained  the  veteran  with  still  greater  honor. 
When  Theodomir  returned  to  the  city,  he  made  known  the 
capitulation,  and  charged  the  inhabitants  to  pack  up  their 
effects  during  the  night  and  be  ready  to  sally  forth  in  the 
morning. 

At  the  dawn  of  day  the  gates  were  thrown  open,  and 
Abdalasis  looked  to  see  a  great  force  issuing  forth,  but,  to 
his  surprise,  beheld  merely  Theodomir  and  his  page  in 
battered  armor,  followed  by  a  multitude  of  old  men,  women 
and  children. 

Abdalasis  waited  until  the  whole  had  come  forth,  then 
turning  to  Theodomir,  "Where,"  cried  he,  "are  the  soldiers 
whom  I  saw  last  evening  lining  the  walls  and  towers?" 

"Soldiers  have  I  none,"  replied  the  veteran.  "As  to  my 
garrison,  behold  it  before  you.  With  these  women  did  I 
man  my  walls,  and  this,  my  page,  is  my  herald,  guard  and 
retinue." 

Upon  this  the  Bishop  Oppas  and  Count  Julian  exclaimed 
that  the  capitulation  was  a  base  fraud  and  ought  not  to  be 
complied  with  ;  but  Abdalasis  relished  the  stratagem  of  the 
old  soldier,  and  ordered  that  the  stipulations  of  the  treaty 
should  be  faithfully  performed.  Nay,  so  high  an  opinion  did 
he  conceive  of  the  subtle  wisdom  of  this  commander,  that  he 
permitted  him  to  remain  in  authority  over  the  surrounding 
country  on  his  acknowledging  allegiance  and  engaging  to 
pay  tribute  to  the  caliph  ;  and  all  that  part  of  Spain,  compris- 
ing the  beautiful  provinces  of  Murcia  and  Valencia,  was  long 
after  known  by  the  Arabic  name  of  its  defender,  and  is  still 
recorded  in  Arabian  chronicles  as  "The  land  of  Tadmir."* 

*  Conde,  P.  1.  Cronica  del  moro  Rasis.  Cron.  gen.  Espana  pot 
Alonzo  el  Sabio.  P.  3,  c.  1. 


524  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ii)<$tor)  Iruii)<? 

Having  succeeded  in  subduing  this  rich  and  fruitful 
region,  and  having  gained  great  renown  for  his  generosity  as 
well  as  valor,  Abdalasis  returned  with  the  chief  part  of  his 
army  to  the  city  of  Seville. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

MUZA    ARRIVES  AT  TOLEDO — INTERVIEW  BETWEEN   HIM 
AND    TARIC 

WHEN  Muza  ben  Nosier  had  sent  his  son  Abdalasis  to 
subdue  Seville,  he  departed  for  Toledo  to  call  Taric  to  account 
for  his  disobedience  to  his  orders;  for,  amid  all  his  own 
successes,  the  prosperous  career  of  that  commander  preyed 
upon  his  mind.  What  can  content  the  jealous  and  ambitious 
heart?  As  Muza  passed  through  the  land,  towns  and  cities 
submitted  to  him  without  resistance ;  he  was  lost  in  wonder 
at  the  riches  of  the  country  and  the  noble  monuments  of  art 
with  which  it  was  adorned;  when  he  beheld  the  bridges, 
constructed  in  ancient  times  by  the  Romans,  they  seemed  to 
him  the  work,  not  of  men,  but  of  genii.  Yet  all  these  ad- 
mirable objects  only  made  him  repine  the  more  that  he  had 
not  had  the  exclusive  glory  of  invading  and  subduing  the 
land ;  and  exasperated  him  the  more  against  Taric,  for  having 
apparently  endeavored  to  monopolize  the  conquest. 

Taric  heard  of  his  approach,  and  came  forth  to  meet  him 
at  Talavera,  accompanied  by  many  of  the  most  distinguished 
companions  of  his  victories,  and  with  a  train  of  horses  and 
mules  laden  with  spoils,  with  which  he  trusted  to  propitiate 
the  favor  of  his  commander.  Their  meeting  took  place  on 
the  banks  of  the  rapid  river  Tietar,  which  rises  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Placencia  and  throws  itself  into  the  Tagus.  Muza, 
in  former  days,  while  Taric  had  acted  as  his  subordinate  and 
indefatigable  officer,  had  cherished  and  considered  him  as  a 
second  self ;  but  now  that  he  had  started  up  to  be  a  rival,  he 


Ce$er>ds  of  tl?e  <?oi?quest  of  Spaip  525 

could  not  conceal  his  jealousy.  When  the  veteran  came  into 
his  presence,  he  regarded  him  for  a  moment  with  a  stern  and 
indignant  aspect.  "Why  hast  thou  disobeyed  my  orders?" 
said  he.  "I  commanded  thee  to  await  my  arrival  with  re- 
enforcements,  but  thou  hast  rashly  overrun  the  country, 
endangering  the  loss  of  our  armies  and  the  ruin  of  our 
cause." 

"I  have  acted,"  replied  Taric,  "in  such  manner  as  I 
thought  would  best  serve  the  cause  of  Islam,  and  in  so  doing 
I  thought  to  fulfill  the  wishes  of  Muza.  Whatever  I  have 
done  has  been  as  your  servant;  behold  your  share,  as  com- 
mander-in-chief,  of  the  spoils  which  I  have  collected."  So 
saying,  he  produced  an  immense  treasure  in  silver  and  gold 
and  costly  stuffs,  and  precious  stones,  and  spread  it  before 
Muza. 

The  anger  of  the  Arab  commander  was  still  more  kindled 
at  the  sight  of  this  booty,  for  it  proved  how  splendid  had  been 
the  victories  of  Taric;  but  he  restrained  his  wrath  for  the 
present,  and  they  proceeded  together  in  moody  silence  to 
Toledo.  When  he  entered  this  royal  city,  however,  and 
ascended  to  the  ancient  palace  of  the  Gothic  kings,  and  re- 
flected that  all  this  had  been  a  scene  of  triumph  to  bis  rival, 
he  could  no  longer  repress  his  indignation.  He  demanded  of 
Taric  a  strict  account  of  all  the  riches  he  had  gathered  in 
Spain,  even  of  the  presents  he  had  reserved  for  the  caliph, 
and,  above  all,  he  made  him  yield  up  his  favorite  trophy,  the 
talismanic  table  of  Solomon.  When  all  this  was  done,  he 
again  upbraided  him  bitterly  with  his  disobedience  of  orders, 
and  with  the  rashness  of  his  conduct.  "What  blind  confi- 
dence in  fortune  thou  hast  shown,"  said  he,  "in  overrunning 
such  a  country  and  assailing  such  powerful  cities  with  thy 
scanty  force!  What  madness,  to  venture  everything  upon 
a  desperate  chance,  when  thou  knewest  I  was  coming  with 
a  force  to  make  the  victory  secure.  All  thy  success  has  been 
owing  to  mere  luck,  not  to  judgment  nor  generalship." 

He  then  bestowed  high  praises  upon  the  other  chieftains 
for  their  services  in  the  cause  of  Islam,  but  they  answered 


526  H/orl^s  of 

not  a  word,  and  their  countenances  were  gloomy  and  discon- 
tented ;  for  they  felt  the  injustice  done  to  their  favorite  leader. 
As  to  Taric,  though  his  eye  burned  like  fire,  he  kept  his 
passion  within  bounds.  "I  have  done  the  best  I  could  to 
serve  God  and  the  caliph,"  said  he  emphatically;  "my  con- 
science acquits  me,  and  I  trust  my  sovereign  will  do  the 
same." 

"Perhaps  he  may,"  replied  Muza,  bitterly,  "but,  in  the 
meantime,  I  cannot  confide  his  interests  to  a  desperado  who 
is  heedless  of  orders  and  throws  everything  at  hazard.  Such 
a  general  is  unworthy  to  be  intrusted  with  the  fate  of 
armies." 

So  saying,  he  divested  Taric  of  his  command,  and  gave 
it  to  Magued  the  renegado.  The  gaunt  Taric  still  maintained 
an  air  of  stern  composure.  His  only  words  were,  "The 
caliph  will  do  me  justice!"  Muza  was  so  transported  with 
passion  at  this  laconic  defiance  that  he  ordered  him  to  be 
thrown  into  prison,  and  even  threatened  his  life. 

Upon  this,  Magued  el  Rumi,  though  he  had  risen  by  the 
disgrace  of  Taric,  had  the  generosity  to  speak  out  warmly 
in  his  favor.  "Consider,"  said  he  to  Muza,  "what  may  be 
the  consequences  of  this  severity.  Taric  has  many  friends  in 
the  army ;  his  actions,  too,  have  been  signal  and  illustrious, 
and  entitle  him  to  the  highest  honors  and  rewards,  instead 
of  disgrace  and  imprisonment." 

The  anger  of  Muza,  however,  was  not  to  be  appeased; 
and  he  trusted  to  justify  his  measures  by  dispatching  missives 
to  the  caliph,  complaining  of  the  insubordination  of  Taric, 
and  his  rash  and  headlong  conduct.  The  result  proved  the 
wisdom  of  the  caution  given  by  Magued.  In  the  course  of 
a  little  while  Muza  received  a  humiliating  letter  from  the 
caliph,  ordering  him  to  restore  Taric  to  the  command  of  the 
soldiers  "whom  he  had  so  gloriously  conducted" ;  and  not  to 
render  useless  "one  of  the  best  swords  in  Islam!"* 

It  is  thus  the  envious  man  brings  humiliation  and  re- 

*  Conde.     Part  1,  c.  15. 


of  tfye  <?oi)quest  of  Spafp  527 

proach  upon  himself,  in  endeavoring  to  degrade  a  meritorious 
rival.  When  the  tidings  came  of  the  justice  rendered  by  the 
caliph  to  the  merits  of  the  veteran,  there  was  general  joy 
throughout  the  army,  and  Muza  read  in  the  smiling  coun- 
tenances of  every  one  around  him  a  severe  censure  upon  his 
conduct.  He  concealed,  however,  his  deep  humiliation,  and 
affected  to  obey  the  orders  of  his  sovereign  with  great 
alacrity;  he  released  Taric  from  prison,  feasted  him  at  his 
own  table,  and  then  publicly  replaced  him  at  the  head  of  his 
troops.  The  army  received  its  favorite  veteran  with  shouts 
of  joy,  and  celebrated  with  rejoicings  the  reconciliation  of 
the  commanders ;  but  the  shouts  of  the  soldiery  were  abhor- 
rent to  the  ears  of  Muza. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

MUZA    PROSECUTES    THE    SCHEME  OF    CONQUEST — SIEGE    OF 
SARAGOSSA — COMPLETE    SUBJUGATION   OF  SPAIN 

THE  dissensions,  which  for  a  time  had  distracted  the  con- 
quering army,  being  appeased,  and  the  Arabian  generals 
being  apparently  once  more  reconciled,  Muza,  as  commander- 
in-chief,  proceeded  to  complete  the  enterprise  by  subjugating 
the  northern  parts  of  Spain.  The  same  expeditious  mode  of 
conquest  that  had  been  sagaciously  adopted  by  Taric  was 
still  pursued.  The  troops  were  lightly  armed,  and  freed 
from  every  superfluous  incumbrance.  Each  horseman, 
besides  his  arms,  carried  a  small  sack  of  provisions,  a,  copper 
vessel  in  which  to  cook  them,  and  a  skin  which  served  him 
for  surcoat  and  for  bed.  The  infantry  carried  nothing  but 
their  arms.  To  each  regiment  or  squadron  was  allowed  a 
limited  number  of  sumpter  mules  and  attendants;  barely 
enough  to  carry  their  necessary  baggage  and  supplies ;  noth- 
ing was  permitted  that  could  needlessly  diminish  the  number 
of  fighting  men,  delay  their  rapid  movements,  or  consume 


528  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?ii)$toi?  Iruip<J 

their  provisions.  Strict  orders  were  again  issued,  prohibiting, 
on  pain  of  death,  all  plunder  excepting  the  camp  of  an  enemy, 
or  cities  given  up  to  pillage.* 

The  armies  now  took  their  several  lines  of  march.  That 
under  Taric  departed  toward  the  northeast;  beating  up  the 
country  toward  the  source  of  the  Tagus;  traversing  the 
chain  of  Iberian  or  Arragonian  mountains,  and  pouring  down 
into  the  plains  and  valleys  watered  by  the  Ebro.  It  was 
wonderful  to  see,  in  so  brief  a  space  of  time,  such  a  vast  and 
difficult  country  penetrated  and  subdued;  and  the  invading 
army,  like  an  inundating  flood,  pouring  its  streams  into  the 
most  remote  recesses. 

While  Taric  was  thus  sweeping  the  country  to  the  north- 
east, Muza  departed  in  an  opposite  direction ;  yet  purposing 
to  meet  him,  and  to  join  their  forces  in  the  north.  Bending 
his  course  westwardly,  he  made  a  circuit  behind  the  moun- 
tains, and  then,  advancing  into  the  open  country,  displayed 
his  banners  before  Salamanca,  which  surrendered  without 
resistance.  From  hence  he  continued  on  toward  Astorga, 
receiving  the  terrified  submission  of  the  land ;  then  turning 
up  the  valley  of  the  Douro,  he  ascended  the  course  of  that 
famous  river  toward  the  east;  crossed  the  Sierra  de  Moncayo, 
and,  arriving  on  the  banks  of  the  Ebro,  marched  down  along 
its  stream,  until  he  approached  the  strong  city  of  Saragossa, 
the  citadel  of  all  that  part  of  Spam.  In  this  place  had  taken 
refuge  many  of  the  most  valiant  of  the  Gothic  warriors;  the 
remnants  of  armies  and  fugitives  from  conquered  cities.  It 
was  one  of  the  last  rallying  points  of  the  land.  When  Muza 
arrived,  Taric  had  already  been  for  some  time  before  the 
place,  laying  close  siege;  the  inhabitants  were  pressed  by 
famine  and  had  suffered  great  losses  in  repeated  combats,  but 
there  was  a  spirit  and  obstinacy  in  their  resistance  surpass- 
ing anything  that  had  yet  been  witnessed  by  the  invaders. 

Muza  now  took  command  of  the  siege,  and  ordered  a 
general  assault  upon  the  walls.  The  Moslems  planted  their 

*  Conde.    P.  1,  c.  15. 


£e$ei?d&  of  tl?e  Qopqueet  of  Spaip  529 

scaling  ladders,  and  mounted  with  their  accustomed  intre- 
pidity, but  were  vigorously  resisted;  nor  could  all  their 
efforts  obtain  them  a  footing  upon  the  battlements.  "While 
they  were  thus  assailing  the  walls,  Count  Julian  ordered  a 
heap  of  combustibles  to  be  placed  against  one  of  the  gates 
and  set  on  fire.  The  inhabitants  attempted  in  vain  from  the 
barbican  to  extinguish  the  flames.  They  burned  so  fiercely 
that  in  a  little  while  the  gate  fell  from  the  hinges.  Count 
Julian  galloped  into  the  city  mounted  upon  a  powerful  charger, 
himself  and  his  steed  all  covered  with  mail.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  three  hundred  of  his  partisans,  and  supported  by 
Magued,  the  renegado,  with  a  troop  of  horse. 

The  inhabitants  disputed  every  street  and  public  square ; 
they  made  barriers  of  dead  bodies,  fighting  behind  these 
ramparts  of  their  slaughtered  countrymen.  Every  window 
and  roof  was  filled  with  combatants;  the  very  women  and 
children  joined  in  the  desperate  fight,  throwing  down  stones 
and  missiles  of  all  kinds,  and  scalding  water  upon  the  enemy. 

The  battle  raged  until  the  hour  of  vespers,  when  the  prin- 
cipal inhabitants  held  a  parley,  and  capitulated  for  surren- 
der. Muza  had  been  incensed  at  their  obstinate  resistance, 
which  had  cost  the  lives  of  so  many  of  his  soldiers;  he  knew, 
also,  that  in  the  city  were  collected  the  riches  of  many  of  the 
towns  of  eastern  Spain.  He  demanded,  therefore,  beside 
the  usual  terms,  a  heavy  sum  to  be  paid  down  by  the  citi- 
zens, called  the  contribution  of  blood;  as  by  this  they  re- 
deemed themselves  from  the  edge  of  the  sword.  The  people 
were  obliged  to  comply.  They  collected  all  the  jewels  of 
their  richest  families,  and  all  the  ornaments  of  their  temples, 
and  laid  them  at  the  feet  of  Muza ;  and  placed  in  his  power 
many  of  their  noblest  youths  as  hostages.  A  strong  garri- 
son was  then  appointed,  and  thus  the  fierce  city  of  Saragossa 
was  subdued  to  the  yoke  of  the  conqueror. 

The  Arab  generals  pursued  their  conquests  even  to  the 
foot  of  the  Pyrenees ;  Taric  then  descended  along  the  course 
of  the  Ebro,  and  continued  along  the  Mediterranean  coast; 
subduing  the  famous  city  of  Valencia,  with  its  rich  and 
*  *  *23  VOL.  I. 


530  U/orKs  of 


beautiful  domains,  and  carrying  the  success  of  his  arms  even 
to  Denia. 

Muza  undertook  with  his  host  a  wider  range  of  conquest. 
He  overcame  the  cities  of  Barcelona,  Gerona,  and  others  that 
lay  on  the  skirts  of  the  eastern  mountains  ;  then  crossing  into 
the  land  of  the  Franks,  he  captured  the  city  of  Narbonne  ;  in 
a  temple  of  which  he  found  seven  equestrian  images  of  silver, 
which  he  brought  off  as  trophies  of  his  victory.*  Returning 
into  Spain,  he  scoured  its  northern  regions  along  Gallicia  and 
the  Asturias;  passed  triumphantly  through  Lusitania,  and. 
arrived  once  more  in  Andalusia,  covered  with  laurels  and  en- 
riched with  immense  spoils. 

Thus  was  completed  the  subjugation  of  unhappy  Spain. 
All  its  cities  and  fortresses  and  strongholds  were  in  the  hands 
of  the  Saracens,  excepting  some  of  the  wild  mountain  tracts 
that  bordered  the  Atlantic,  and  extended  toward  the  north. 
Here,  then,  the  story  of  the  conquest  might  conclude,  but 
that  the  indefatigable  chronicler,  Fray  Antonio  Agapida, 
goes  on  to  record  the  fate  of  those  persons  who  were  most 
renowned  in  the  enterprise.  We  shall  follow  his  steps,  and 
avail  ourselves  of  his  information,  laboriously  collected  from 
various  sources  ;  and,  truly,  the  story  of  each  of  the  actors 
in  this  great  historical  drama  bears  with  it  its  striking  moral, 
and  is  full  of  admonition  and  instruction. 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

FEUD  BETWEEN  THE  ARAB  GENERALS — THEY  ARE  SUM- 
MONED TO  APPEAR  BEFORE  THE  CALIPH  AT 
DAMASCUS — RECEPTION  OF  TARIC 

THE  heart  of  Muza  ben  Nosier  was  now  lifted  up,  for  he 
considered  his  glory  complete.     He  held  a  sway  that  might 

*  Conde.    P.  1,  o.  16. 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tl?e  <?oi)quest  of  Spaii)  531 

have  gratified  the  ambition  of  the  proudest  sovereign,  for  all 
western  Africa  and  the ,  newly  acquired  peninsula  of  Spain 
were  obedient  to  his  rule ;  and  he  was  renowned  throughout 
all  the  lands  of  Islam  as  the  great  conqueror  of  the  west. 
But  sudden  humiliation  awaited  him  in  the  very  moment  of 
his  highest  triumph. 

Notwithstanding  the  outward  reconciliation  of  Muza  and 
Taric,  a  deep  and  implacable  hostility  continued  to  exist  be- 
tween them ;  and  each  had  busy  partisans  who  distracted  the 
armies  by  their  feuds.  Letters  were  incessantly  dispatched 
to  Damascus  by  either  party,  exalting  the  merits  of  their  own 
leader  arid  decrying  his  rival.  Taric  was  represented  as  rash, 
arbitrary  and  prodigal,  and  as  injuring  the  discipline  of  the 
army,  by  sometimes  treating  it  with  extreme  rigor,  and  at 
other  times  giving  way  to  licentiousness  and  profusion. 
Muza  was  lauded  as  prudent,  sagacious,  dignified,  and  sys- 
tematic in  his  dealings.  The  friends  of  Taric,  on  the  other 
hand,  represented  him  as  brave,  generous,  and  high-minded; 
scrupulous  in  reserving  to  his  sovereign  his  rightful  share  of 
the  spoils,  but  distributing  the  rest  bounteously  among  his 
soldiers,  and  thus  increasing  their  alacrity  in  the  service. 
"Muza,  on  the  contrary,"  said  they,  "is  grasping  and  in- 
satiable; he  levies  intolerable  contributions  and  collects 
immense  treasure,  but  sweeps  it  all  into  his  own  coffers." 

The  caliph  was  at  length  wearied  out  by  these  complaints, 
and  feared  that  the  safety  of  the  cause  might  be  endangered 
by  the  dissensions  of  the  rival  generals.  He  sent  letters, 
therefore,  ordering  them  to  leave  suitable  persons  in  charge 
of  their  several  commands,  and  appear,  forthwith,  before  him 
at  Damascus. 

Such  was  the  greeting  from  his  sovereign  that  awaited 
Muza  on  his  return  from  the  conquest  of  northern  Spain.  It 
was  a  grievous  blow  to  a  man  of  his  pride  and  ambition ; 
but  he  prepared  instantly  to  obey.  He  returned  to  Cordova, 
collecting  by  the  way  all  the  treasures  he  had  deposited 
in  various  places.  At  that  city  he  called  a  meeting  of  his 
principal  officers,  and  of  the  leaders  of  the  faction  of  apostate 


532  U/or^s  of  U/asl?ip$toi)  Iruir?$ 

Christians,  and  made  them  all  do  homage  to  his  son  Abda- 
lasis,  as  emir  or  governor  of  Spain.  He  gave  this  favorite 
son  much  sage  advice  for  the  regulation  of  his  conduct,  and 
left  with  him  his  nephew,  Ayub,  a  man  greatly  honored  by 
the  Moslems  for  his  wisdom  and  discretion ;  exhorting  Abda- 
lasis  to  consult  him  on  all  occasions  and  consider  him  as  his 
bosom  counselor.  He  made  a  parting  address  to  his  adher- 
ents, full  of  cheerful  confidence ;  assuring  them  that  he  would 
soon  return,  loaded  with  new  favors  and  honors  by  his  sov- 
ereign, and  enabled  to  reward  them  all  for  their  faithful 
services. 

When  Muza  sallied  forth  from  Cordova,  to  repair  to  Da- 
mascus, his  cavalgada  appeared  like  the  sumptuous  pageant 
of  some  Oriental  potentate ;  for  he  had  numerous  guards  and 
attendants  splendidly  armed  and  arrayed,  together  with  four 
hundred  hostages,  who  were  youthful  cavaliers  of  the  noblest 
families  of  the  Goths,  and  a  great  number  of  captives  of  both 
sexes,  chosen  for  their  beauty,  and  intended  as  presents  for 
the  caliph.  Then  there  was  a  vast  train  of  beasts  of  burden, 
laden  with  the  plunder  of  Spain ;  for  he  took  with  him  all 
the  wealth  he  had  collected  in  his  conquests ;  and  all  the 
share  that  had  been  set  apart  for  his  sovereign.  With  this 
display  of  trophies  and  spoils,  showing  the  magnificence  of 
the  land  he  had  conquered,  he  looked  with  confidence  to 
silence  the  calumnies  of  his  foes. 

As  he  traversed  the  valley  of  the  Guadalquivir  he  often 
turned  and  looked  back  wistfully  upon  Cordova ;  and,  at  the 
distance  of  a  league,  when  about  to  lose  sight  of  it,  he  checked 
his  steed  upon  the  summit  of  a  hill,  and  gazed  for  a  long  time 
upon  its  palaces  and  towers.  "O  Cordova!"  exclaimed  he, 
"great  and  glorious  art  thou  among  cities,  and  abundant  in 
all  delights.  With  grief  and  sorrow  do  I  part  from  thee,  for 
sure  I  am  it  would  give  me  length  of  days  to  abide  within 
thy  pleasant  walls!"  When  he  had  uttered  these  words, 
say  the  Arabian  chronicles,  he  resumed  his  wayfaring ;  but 
his  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  and  frequent  sighs  be- 
spoke the  heaviness  of  his  heart. 


of  tl?e  ^opquest  of  Spaii?  533 

Embarking  at  Cadiz  he  passed  over  to  Africa  with  all  his 
people  and  effects,  to  regulate  his  government  in  that  coun- 
try. He  divided  the  command  between  his  sons,  Abdelola 
and  Meruan,  leaving  the  former  in  Tangier  and  the  latter 
in  Cairvan.  Thus  having  secured,  as  he  thought,  the  power 
and  prosperity  of  his  family,  by  placing  all  his  sons  as  his 
lieutenants  in  the  country  he  had  conquered,  he  departed 
for  Syria,  bearing  with  him  the  sumptuous  spoils  of  the 
west. 

While  Muza  was  thus  disposing  of  his  commands,  and 
moving  cumbrously  under  the  weight  of  wealth,  the  veteran 
Taric  was  more  speedy  and  alert  in  obeying  the  summons  of 
the  caliph.  He  knew  the  importance,  where  complaints  were 
to  be  heard,  of  being  first  in  presence  of  the  judge;  besides, 
he  was  ever  ready  to  march  at  a  moment's  warning,  and  had 
nothing  to  impede  him  in  his  movements.  The  spoils  he 
had  made  in  his  conquests  had  either  been  shared  among  his 
soldiers,  or  yielded  up  to  Muza,  or  squandered  away  with 
open-handed  profusion.  He  appeared  in  Syria  with  a  small 
train  of  war-worn  followers,  and  had  no  other  trophies  to 
show  than  his  battered  armor  and  a  body  seamed  with  scars. 
He  was  received,  however,  with  rapture  by  the  multitude, 
who  crowded  to  behold  one  of  those  conquerors  of  the  west, 
whose  wonderful  achievements  were  the  theme  of  every 
tongue.  They  were  charmed  with  his  gaunt  and  martial 
air,  his  hard  sunburned  features,  and  his  scathed  eye.  "All 
hail,"  cried  they,  "to  the  sword  of  Islam,  the  terror  of  the 
unbelievers !  Behold  the  true  model  of  a  warrior,  who  de- 
spises gain  and  seeks  for  naught  but  glory!" 

Taric  was  graciously  received  by  the  caliph,  who  asked 
tidings  of  his  victories.  He  gave  a  soldier-like  account  of 
his  actions,  frank  and  full,  without  any  feigned  modesty,  yet 
without  vainglory.  "Commander  of  the  faithful,"  said  he, 
"I  bring  thee  no  silver,  nor  gold,  nor  precious  stones,  nor 
captives;  for  what  spoils  I  did  not  share  with  my  soldiers  I 
gave  up  to  Muza  as  my  commander.  How  I  have  conducted 
myself  the  honorable  warriors  of  thy  host  will  tell  thee ;  nay, 


534  U/orKs  of  U/a8bio<$toi)  Iruii)<J 

let  our  enemies,  the  Christians,  be  asked  if  I  have  ever  shown 
myself  cowardly  or  cruel  or  rapacious." 

"What  kind  of  people  are  these  Christians?"  demanded 
the  caliph. 

"The  Spaniards,"  replied  Taric,  "are  lions  in  their  castles, 
eagles  in  their  saddles,  but  mere  women  when  on  foot.  When 
vanquished  they  escape  like  goats  to  the  mountains,  for  they 
need  not  see  the  ground  they  tread  on." 

"And  tell  me  of  the  Moors  of  Barbary." 

"They  are  like  Arabs  in  the  fierceness  and  dexterity  of 
their  attacks,  and  in  their  knowledge  of  the  stratagems  of 
war;  they  resemble  them,  too,  in  feature,  in  fortitude,  and 
hospitality;  but  they  are  the  most  perfidious  people  upon 
earth,  and  never  regard  promise  or  plighted  faith. ' ' 

"And  the  people  of  Afranc;  what  sayest  thou  of  them?" 

"They  are  infinite  in  number,  rapid  in  the  onset,  fierce  in 
battle,  but  confused  and  headlong  in  flight." 

"And  how  fared  it  with  thee  among  these  people?  Did 
they  sometimes  vanquish  thee?" 

"Never,  by  Allah!"  cried  Taric,  with  honest  warmth, 
"never  did  a  banner  of  mine  fly  the  field.  Though  the 
enemy  were  two  to  one,  my  Moslems  never  shunned  the 
combat!" 

The  caliph  was  well  pleased  with  the  martial  bluntness  of 
the  veteran,  and  showed  him  great  honor;  and  wherever 
Taric  appeared  he  was  the  idol  of  the  populace. 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

MUZA    ARRIVES    AT    DAMASCUS — HIS    INTERVIEW   WITH    THE 

CALIPH — THE    TABLE   OF   SOLOMON — A  RIGOROUS 

SENTENCE 

SHORTLY  after  the  arrival  of  Taric  el  Tuerto  at  Damascus, 
the  caliph  fell  dangerously  ill,  insomuch  that  his  life  was  de- 
spaired of.  During  his  illness,  tidings  were  brought  that 


Ce<$er}ds  of  tf?e  (?oi>quest  of  Spaii?  535 

Muza  ben  Nosier  had  entered  Syria  with  a  vast  cavalcade, 
bearing  all  the  riches  and  trophies  gained  in  the  western  con- 
quests. Now  Suleiman  ben  Abdelmelec,  brother  to  the  caliph, 
was  successor  to  the  throne,  and  he  saw  that  his  brother  had 
not  long  to  live,  and  wished  to  grace  the  commencement  of 
his  reign  by  this  triumphant  display  of  the  spoils  of  Christen- 
dom; he  sent  messengers,  therefore,  to  Muza,  saying,  "The 
caliph  is  ill  and  cannot  receive  thee  at  present ;  I  pray  thee 
tarry  on  the  road  until  his  recovery."  Muza,  however,  paid 
no  attention  to  the  messages  of  Suleiman,  but  rather  hastened 
his  march  to  arrive  before  the  death  of  the  caliph.  And  Su- 
leiman treasured  up  his  conduct  in  his  heart. 

Muza  entered  the  city  in  a  kind  of  triumph,  with  a  long 
train  of  horses  and  mules  and  camels  laden  with  treasure, 
and  with  the  four  hundred  sons  of  Gothic  nobles  as  hostages, 
each  decorated  with  a  diadem  and  a  girdle  of  gold ;  and  with 
one  hundred  Christian  damsels,  whose  beauty  dazzled  all  be- 
holders. As  he  passed  through  the  streets  he  ordered  purses 
of  gold  to  be  thrown  among  the  populace,  who  rent  the  air 
with  acclamations.  "Behold,"  cried  they,  "the  veritable 
conqueror  of  the  unbelievers!  Behold  the  true  model  of  a 
conqueror,  who  brings  home  wealth  to  his  country!"  And 
they  heaped  benedictions  on  the  head  of  Muza. 

The  caliph  Waled  Almaiizor  rose  from  his  couch  of  illness 
to  receive  the  emir;  who,  when  he  repaired  to  the  palace, 
filled  one  of  its  great  courts  with  treasures  of  all  kinds;  the 
halls,  too,  were  thronged  with  the  youthful  hostages,  mag- 
nificently attired,  and  with  Christian  damsels,  lovely  as  the 
houris  of  paradise.  When  the  caliph  demanded  an  account 
of  the  conquest  of  Spain,  he  gave  it  with  great  eloquence; 
but,  in  describing  the  various  victories,  he  made  no  mention 
of  the  name  of  Taric,  but  spoke  as  if  everything  had  been 
effected  by  himself.  He  then  presented  the  spoils  of  the 
Christians  as  if  they  had  been  all  taken  by  his  own  hands; 
and  when  he  delivered  to  the  caliph  the  miraculous  table  of 
Solomon  he  dwelt  with  animation  on  the  virtues  of  that  in- 
estimable talisman. 


536  U/orKs  of  U/asbiQqtor; 

Upon  this  Taric,  who  was  present,  could  no  longer  hold 
his  peace.  "Commander  of  the  faithful,"  said  he,  "examine 
this  precious  table,  if  any  part  be  wanting."  The  caliph  ex- 
amined the  table,  which  was  composed  of  a  single  emerald, 
and  he  found  that  one  foot  was  supplied  by  a  foot  of  gold. 
The  caliph  turned  to  Muza  and  said,  "Where  is  the  other 
foot  of  the  table?"  Muza  answered,  "I  know  not;  one  foot 
was  wanting  when  it  came  into  my  hands."  Upon  this, 
Taric  drew  from  beneath  his  robe  a  foot  of  emerald  of  like 
workmanship  to  the  others,  and  fitting  exactly  to  the  table. 
"Behold,  O  commander  of  the  faithful!"  cried  he,  "a  proof 
of  the  real  finder  of  the  table ;  and  so  is  it  with  the  greater 
part  of  the  spoils  exhibited  by  Muza  as  trophies  of  his  achieve- 
ments. It  was  I  who  gained  them,  and  who  captured  the 
cities  in  which  they  were  found.  If  you  want  proof,  demand 
of  these  Christian  cavaliers  here  present,  most  of  whom  I 
captured ;  demand  of  those  Moslem  warriors  who  aided  me 
in  my  battles." 

Muza  was  confounded  for  a  moment,  but  attempted  to 
vindicate  himself.  "I  spake,"  said  he,  "as  the  chief  of  your 
armies,  under  whose  orders  and  banners  this  conquest  was 
achieved.  The  actions  of  the  soldier  are  the  actions  of  the 
commander.  In  a  great  victory  it  is  not  supposed  that  the 
chief  of  the  army  takes  all  the  captives,  or  kills  all  the  slain, 
or  gathers  all  the  booty,  though  all  are  enumerated  in  the 
records  of  his  triumph."  The  caliph,  however,  was  wroth, 
and  heeded  not  his  words.  "You  have  vaunted  your  own 
deserts,"  said  he,  "and  have  forgotten  the  deserts  of  others; 
nay,  you  have  sought  to  debase  another  who  has  loyally 
served  his  sovereign ;  the  reward  of  your  envy  and  covetous- 
ness  be  upon  your  own  head!"  So  saying,  he  bestowed  a 
great  part  of  the  spoils  upon  Taric  and  the  other  chiefs,  but 
gave  nothing  to  Muza;  and  the  veteran  retired  amid  the 
sneers  and  murmurs  of  those  present. 

In  a  few  days  the  Caliph  Waled  died,  and  was  succeeded 
by  his  brother  Suleiman.  The  new  sovereign  cherished  deep 
resentment  against  Muza  for  having  presented  himself  at 


Ce$ei?d8  of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spaii?  537 

court  contrary  to  his  command,  and  he  listened  readily  to 
the  calumnies  of  his  enemies ;  for  Muza  had  been  too  illus- 
trious in  his  deeds  not  to  have  many  enemies.  All  now  took 
courage  when  they  found  he  was  out  of  favor,  and  they 
heaped  slanders  on  his  head;  charging  him  with  embezzling 
much  of  the  share  of  the  booty  belonging  to  the  sovereign. 
The  new  caliph  lent  a  willing  ear  to  the  accusation,  and  com- 
manded him  to  render  up  all  thy  t  he  had  pillaged  from  Spain. 
The  loss  of  his  riches  might  have  been  borne  with  fortitude 
by  Muza,  but  the  stigma  upon  his  fame  filled  his  heart  with 
bitterness.  "I  have  been  a  faithful  servant  to  the  throne 
from  my  youth  upward,"  said  he,  "and  now  am  I  degraded 
in  my  old  age.  I  care  not  for  wealth,  I  care  not  for  life, 
but  let  me  not  be  deprived  of  that  honor  which  God  has 
bestowed  upon  me!" 

The  caliph  was  still  more  exasperated  at  his  repining,  and 
stripped  him  of  his  commands ;  confiscated  his  effects ;  fined 
him  two  hundred  thousand  pesants  of  gold,  and  ordered  that 
he  should  be  scourged  and  exposed  to  the  noontide  sun,  and 
afterward  thrown  into  prison.  *  The  populace,  also,  reviled  and 
scoffed  at  him  in  his  misery,  and  as  they  beheld  him  led  forth 
to  the  public  gaze,  and  fainting  in  the  sun,  they  pointed  at 
him  with  derision  and  exclaimed — "Behold  the  envious  man 
and  the  impostor;  this  is  he  who  pretended  to  have  conquered 
the  land  of  the  unbelievers!" 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

CONDUCT   OF  ABDALASIS   AS   EMIR   OF   SPAIN 

WHILE  these  events  were  happening  in  Syria,  the  youth- 
ful Abdalasis,  the  son  of  Muza,  remained  as  emir  or  governor 
of  Spain.  He  was  of  a  generous  and  benignant  disposition, 

*  Conde,  p.  1,  o.  17. 


538  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?io$top 

but  he  was  open  and  confiding,  and  easily  led  away  by  the 
opinions  of  those  he  loved.  Fortunately  his  father  had  left 
with  him,  as  a  bosom  counselor,  the  discreet  Ayub,  the 
nephew  of  Muza;  aided  by  his  advice  he  for  some  time 
administered  the  public  affairs  prudently  and  prosperously. 

Not  long  after  the  departure  of  his  father,  he  received  a 
letter  from  him,  written  while  on  his  journey  to  Syria;  it 
was  to  the  following  purport : 

"Beloved  son;  honor  of  thy  lineage;  Allah  guard  thee 
from  all  harm  and  peril !  Listen  to  the  words  of  thy  father. 
Avoid  all  treachery  though  it  should  promise  great  advan- 
tage, and  trust  not  in  him  who  counsels  it,  even  though  he 
should  be  a  brother.  The  company  of  traitors  put  far  from 
thee ;  for  how  canst  thou  be  certain  that  he  who  has  proved 
false  to  others  will  prove  true  to  thee?  Beware,  O  my  son, 
of  the  seductions  of  love.  It  is  an  idle  passion  which  en- 
feebles the  heart  and  blinds  the  judgment ;  it  renders  the 
mighty  weak,  and  makes  slaves  of  princes.  If  thou  shouldst 
discover  any  foible  of  a  vicious  kind  springing  up  in  thy  nat- 
ure, pluck  it  forth,  whatever  pang  it  cost  thee.  Every  error, 
while  new,  may  easily  be  weeded  out,  but  if  suffered  to  take 
root,  it  flourishes  and  bears  seed,  and  produces  fruit  a  hun- 
dred-fold. Follow  these  counsels,  O  eon  of  my  affections, 
and  thou  shalt  live  secure." 

Abdalasis  meditated  upon  this  letter,  for  some  part  of  it 
seemed  to  contain  a  mystery  which  he  could  not  comprehend. 
He  called  to  him  his  cousin  and  counselor,  the  discreet  Ayub. 
"What  means  my  father,"  said  he,  "in  cautioning  me  against 
treachery  and  treason?  Does  he  think  my  nature  so  base 
that  it  could  descend  to  such  means?" 

Ayub  read  the  letter  attentively.  "Thy  father,"  said  he, 
"would  put  thee  on  thy  guard  against  the  traitors  Julian  and 
Oppas,  and  those  of  their  party  who  surround  thee.  What 
love  canst  thou  expect  from  men  who  have  been  unnatural 
to  their  kindred,  and  what  loyalty  from  wretches  who  have 
betrayed  their  country?" 

Abdalasis  was  satisfied  with  the  interpretation,  and  he 


Ce$ei)ds  of  tl?e  <?or>quest  of  Spain;  539 

acted  accordingly.  He  had  long  loathed  all  communion 
with  these  men,  for  there  is  nothing  which  the  open  ingenu- 
ous nature  so  much  abhors  as  duplicity  and  treason.  Policy, 
too,  no  longer  required  their  agency ;  they  had  rendered  their 
infamous  service,  and  had  no  longer  a  country  to  betray;  but 
they  might  turn  and  betray  their  employers.  Abdalasis, 
therefore,  removed  them  to  a  distance  from  his  court,  and 
placed  them  in  situations  where  they  could  do  no  harm,  and 
he  warned  his  commanders  from  being  in  any  wise  influenced 
by  their  counsels,  or  aided  by  their  arms. 

He  now  confided  entirely  in  his  Arabian  troops,  and  in 
the  Moorish  squadrons  from  Africa,  and  with  their  aid  he 
completed  the  conquest  of  Lusitania  to  the  ultimate  parts  of 
the  Algarbe,  or  west,  even  to  the  shores  of  the  great  Ocean 
sea.*  From  hence  he  sent  his  generals  to  overrun  all  those 
vast  and  rugged  sierras  which  rise  like  ramparts  along  the 
ocean  borders  of  the  peninsula ;  and  they  carried  the  standard 
of  Islam  in  triumph  even  to  the  mountains  of  Biscay,  collect- 
ing all  manner  of  precious  spoil.  • 

"It  is  not  enough,  O  Abdalasis,"  said  Ayub,  "that  we 
conquer  and  rule  this  country  with  the  sword;  if  we  wish 
our  dominion  to  be  secure  we  must  cultivate  the  arts  of 
peace,  and  study  to  secure  the  confidence  and  promote  the 
welfare  of  the  people  we  have  conquered. ' '  Abdalasis  rel- 
ished counsel  which  accorded  so  well  with  his  own  beneficent 
nature.  He  endeavored,  therefore,  to  allay  the  ferment  and 
confusion  of  the  conquest;  forbade,  under  rigorous  punish- 
ment, all  wanton  spoil  or  oppression,  and  protected  the  na- 
tive inhabitants  in  the  enjoyment  and  cultivation  of  their 
lands,  and  the  pursuit  of  all  useful  occupations.  By  the  ad- 
vice of  Ayub,  also,  he  encouraged  great  numbers  of  indus- 
trious Moors  and  Arabs  to  emigrate  from  Africa,  and  gave 


*  Algarbe,  or  Algarbia,  in  Arabic  signifies  the  west,  as  Axarkia  is 
the  east,  Algufia  the  north,  and  Aquibla  the  south.  This  will  serve  to 
explain  some  of  the  geographical  names  on  the  peninsula,  which  are  of 
Arabian  origin. 


540  U/or^g  of 


them  houses  and  lands;  thus  introducing  a  peaceful  Ma- 
hometan population  into  the  conquered  provinces. 

The  good  effect  of  the  counsels  of  Ayub  were  soon  appar- 
ent. Instead  of  a  sudden  but  transient  influx  of  wealth  made 
by  the  ruin  of  the  land,  which  left  the  country  desolate,  a 
regular  and  permanent  revenue  sprang  up,  produced  by  re- 
viving prosperity,  and  gathered  without  violence.  Abda- 
lasis  ordered  it  to  be  faithfully  collected,  and  deposited  in 
coffers  by  public  officers  appointed  in  each  province  for  the 
purpose  ;  and  the  whole  was  sent  by  ten  deputies  to  Damascus 
to  be  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  caliph  ;  not  as  the  spoils  of  a  van- 
quished country,  but  as  the  peaceful  trophies  of  a  wisely 
administered  government. 

The  common  herd  of  warlike  adventurers,  the  mere  men 
of  the  sword,  who  had  thronged  to  Spain  for  the  purpose  of 
ravage  and  rapine,  were  disappointed  at  being  thus  checked 
in  their  career,  and  at  seeing  the  reign  of  terror  and  violence 
drawing  to  a  close.  What  manner  of  leader  is  this,  said  they, 
who  forbids  us  to  make  spofl  of  the  enemies  of  Islam  and  to 
enjoy  the  land  we  have  wrested  from  the  unbelievers?  The 
partisans  of  Julian,  also,  whispered  their  calumnies.  "Be- 
hold," said  they,  "with  what  kindness  he  treats  the  enemies 
of  your  faith  ;  all  the  Christians  who  have  borne  arms  against 
you,  and  withstood  your  entrance  into  the  land,  are  favored 
and  protected  ;  but  it  is  enough  for  a  Christian  to  have  be- 
friended the  cause  of  the  Moslems  to  be  singled  out  by  Ab- 
dalasis  for  persecution,  and  to  be  driven  with  scorn  from  his 
presence." 

These  insinuations  fermented  the  discontent  of  the  turbu- 
lent and  rapacious  among  the  Moslems,  but  all  the  friends  of 
peace  and  order  and  good  government  applauded  the  modera- 
tion of  the  youthful  emir. 


of  tl?e  <?ooque»t  of  Spaip  541 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

LOVES   OP    ABDALASIS  AND   BXILONA 

ABDALASIS  had  fixed  his  seat  of  government,  at  Seville, 
as  permitting  easy  and  frequent  communications  with  the 
coast  of  Africa.  His  palace  was  of  noble  architecture,  with 
delightful  gardens  extending  to  the  banks  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir. In  a  part  of  this  palace  resided  many  of  the  most 
beautiful  Christian  females,  who  were  detained  as  captives, 
or  rather  hostages,  to  insure  the  tranquillity  of  the  country. 
Those  who  were  of  noble  rank  were  entertained  in  luxury 
and  magnificence  ;  slaves  were  appointed  to  attend  upon 
them,  and  they  were  arrayed  in  the  richest  apparel  and 
decorated  with  the  most  precious  jewels.  Those  of  tender 
age  were  taught  all  graceful  accomplishments;  and  even 
where  tasks  were  imposed,  they  were  of  the  most  elegant 
and  agreeable  kind.  They  embroidered,  they  sang,  they 
danced,  and  passed  their  tunes  in  pleasing  revelry.  Many 
were  lulled  by  this  easy  and  voluptuous  existence;  the  scenes 
of  horror  through  which  they  had  passed  were  gradually 
effaced  from  their  minds,  and  a  desire  was  often  awakened 
of  rendering  themselves  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  their  con- 
querors. 

After  his  return  from  his  campaign  in  Lusitania,  and 
during  the  intervals  of  public  duty,  Abdalasis  solaced  him- 
self in  the  repose  of  this  palace,  and  in  the  society  of  these 
Christian  captives.  He  remarked  one  among  them  who 
ever  sat  apart;  and  neither  joined  in  the  labors  nor  sports 
of  her  companions.  She  was  lofty  in  her  demeanor,  and  the 
others  always  paid  her  reverence;  yet  sorrow  had  given  a 
softness  to  her  charms  and  rendered  her  beauty  touching  to 
the  heart.  Abdalasis  found  her  one  day  in  the  garden  with 
her  companions  ;  they  had  adorned  their  heads  with  flowers, 


542  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip<$toi? 

and  were  singing  the  songs  of  their  country,  but  she  sat  by 
herself  and  wept.  The  youthful  emir  was  moved  by  her 
tears,  and  accosted  her  in  gentle  accents.  "O  fairest  of 
women!"  said  he,  "why  dost  thou  weep,  and  why  is  thy 
heart  troubled?"  "Alas!"  replied  she,  "have  I  not  cause 
to  weep,  seeing  how  sad  is  my  condition,  and  how  great  the 
height  from  which  I  have  fallen?  In  me  you  behold  the 
wretched  Exilona,  but  lately  the  wife  of  Roderick,  and 
the  queen  of  Spain,  now  a  captive  and  a  slave!"  and,  hav- 
ing said  these  words,  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  earth  and 
her  tears  began  to  flow  afresh. 

The  generous  feelings  of  Abdalasis  were  aroused  at  the 
sight  of  beauty  and  royalty  in  tears.  He  gave  orders  that 
Exilona  should  be  entertained  in  a  style  befitting  her  former 
rank ;  he  appointed  a  train  of  female  attendants  to  wait  upon 
her,  and  a  guard  of  honor  to  protect  her  from  all  intrusion. 
All  the  time  that  he  could  spare  from  public  concerns  was 
passed  in  her  society;  and  he  even  neglected  his  divan,  and 
suffered  his  counselors  to  attend  in  vain,  while  he  lingered 
in  the  apartments  and  gardens  of  the  palace,  listening  to  the 
voice  of  Exilona. 

The  discreet  Ayub  saw  the  danger  into  which  he  was  fall- 
ing. "O  Abdalasis,"  said  he,  "remember  the  words  of  thy 
father.  'Beware,  my  son,'  said  he,  'of  the  seductions  of  love. 
It  renders  the  mighty  weak,  and  makes  slaves  of  princes!'  " 
A  blush  kindled  on  the  cheek  of  Abdalasis,  and  he  was  silent 
for  a  moment.  "Why,"  said  he,  at  length,  "do  you  seek  to 
charge  me  with  such  weakness.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  infatu- 
ated by  the  charms  of  a  woman,  and  another  to  be  touched 
by  her  misfortunes.  It  is  the  duty  of  my  station  to  console 
a  princess  who  has  been  reduced  to  the  lowest  humiliation  by 
the  triumphs  of  our  arms.  In  doing  so  I  do  but  listen  to  the 
dictates  of  true  magnanimity." 

Ayub  was  silent,  but  his  brow  was  clouded,  and  for  once 
Abdalasis  parted  in  discontent  from  his  counselor.  In  pro- 
portion as  he  was  dissatisfied  with  others  or  with  himself,  he 
sought  the  society  of  Exilona,  for  there  was  a  charm  in  her 


of  tl?e  Qopquest  of  Spaip  543 

conversation  that  banished  every  care.  He  daily  became 
more  and  more  enamored,  and  Exilona  gradually  ceased  to 
weep,  and  began  to  listen  with  secret  pleasure  to  the  words 
of  her  Arab  lover.  When,  however,  he  sought  to  urge  his 
passion,  she  recollected  the  light  estimation  in  which  her  sex 
was  held  by  the  followers  of  Mahomet,  and  assumed  a  counte- 
nance grave  and  severe. 

"Fortune,"  said  she,  "has  cast  me  at  thy  feet,  behold  I 
am  thy  captive  and  thy  spoil.  But  though  my  person  is  in 
thy  power,  my  soul  is  unsubdued,  and  know  that,  should  I 
lack  force  to  defend  my  honor,  I  have  resolution  to  wash 
out  all  stain  upon  it  with  my  blood.  I  trust,  however,  in 
thy  courtesy  as  a  cavalier  to  respect  me  in  my  reverses,  re- 
membering what  I  have  been,  and  that  though  the  crown 
has  been  wrested  from  my  brow,  the  royal  blood  still  warms 
within  my  veins."  * 

The  lofty  spirit  of  Exilona,  and  her  proud  repulse,  served 
but  to  increase  the  passion  of  AbdalaeiB.  He  besought  her 
to  unite  her  destiny  with  his,  and  share  his  state  and  power, 
promising  that  she  should  have  no  rival  nor  copartner  in  his 
heart.  Whatever  scruples  the  captive  queen  might  originally 
have  felt  to  a  union  with  one  of  the  conquerors  of  her  lord, 
and  an  enemy  of  her  adopted  faith,  they  were  easily  van- 
quished, and  she  became  the  bride  of  Abdalasis.  He  would 
fain  have  persuaded  her  to  return  to  the  faith  of  her  fathers; 
but  though  of  Moorish  origin,  and  brought  up  in  the  doctrines 
of  Islam,  she  was  too  thorough  a  convert  to  Christianity  to 
consent,  and  looked  back  with  disgust  upon  a  religion  that 
admitted  a  plurality  of  wives. 

When  the  sage  Ayub  heard  of  the  resolution  of  Abdalasis 
to  espouse  Exilona  he  was  in  despair.  "Alas,  my  cousin!" 
said  he,  "what  infatuation  possesses  thee?  Hast  thou  then 
entirely  forgotten  the  letter  of  thy  father?  'Beware,  my 
son,'  said  he,  'of  love;  it  is  an  idle  passion,  which  enfeebles 

*  Faxardo.  corona,  Gothica,  T.  1,  p.  492.  Joan  Mar.  de  reb.  Hisp0 
L.  6,  c.  27. 


544  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ii}$toi) 

the  heart  and  blinds  the  judgment. '  '  But  Abdalasis  inter- 
rupted him  with  impatience.  "My  father,"  said  he,  "spake 
but  of  the  blandishments  of  wanton  love ;  against  these  I  am 
secured,  by  my  virtuous  passion  for  Exilona." 

Ayub  would  fain  have  impressed  upon  him  the  dangers 
he  ran  of  awakening  suspicion  in  the  caliph,  and  discontent 
among  the  Moslems,  by  wedding  the  queen  of  the  conquered 
Roderick,  and  one  who  was  an  enemy  to  the  religion  of 
Mahomet ;  but  the  youthful  lover  only  listened  to  his  passion. 
Their  nuptials  were  celebrated  at  Seville  with  great  pomp 
and  rejoicings,  and  he  gave  his  bride  the  name  of  Omalisam; 
that  is  to  say,  she  of  the  precious  jewels  :*  but  she  continued 
to  be  known  among  the  Christians  by  the  name  of  Exilona. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

FATE  OF  ABDALASIS  AND  EXILONA— DEATH  OF  MUZA 

POSSESSION,  instead  of  cooling  the  passion  of  Abdalasis, 
only  added  to  its  force ;  he  became  blindly  enamored  of  his 
beautiful  bride,  and  consulted  her  will  in  all  things ;  nay, 
having  lost  all  relish  for  the  advice  of  the  discreet  Ayub,  he 
was  even  guided  by  the  counsels  of  his  wife  in  the  affairs  of 
government.  Exilona,  unfortunately,  had  once  been  a  queen, 
and  she  could  not  remember  her  regal  glories  without  regret. 
She  saw  that  Abdalasis  had  great  power  in  the  land ;  greater 
even  than  had  been  possessed  by  the  Gothic  kings;  but  she 
considered  it  as  wanting  in  true  splendor  until  his  brows 
should  be  encircled  with  the  outward  badge  of  royalty.  One 
day,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  palace  of  Seville,  and  the 
heart  of  Abdalasis  was  given  up  to  tenderness,  she  addressed 
him  in  fond  yet  timid  accents.  "Will  not  my  lord  be 
offended,"  said  she,  "if  I  make  an  unwelcome  request?" 

*  Conde.     P.  1,  c.  17. 


Ce$ei?ds  of  tl?e  Soipquest  of  flpaip  545 

Abdalasis  regarded  her  with  a  smile.  "What  canst  thou 
ask  of  me,  Exilona,"  said  he,  "that  it  would  not  be  a  happi- 
ness for  me  to  grant?"  Then  Exilona  produced  a  crown  of 
gold,  sparkling  with  jewels,  which  had  belonged  to  the  king, 
Don  Roderick,  and  said,  "Behold,  thou  art  king  in  authority, 
be  so  in  thy  outward  state.  There  is  majesty  and  glory  in 
a  crown;  it  gives  a  sanctity  to  power. "  Then  putting  the 
crown  upon  his  head,  she  held  a  mirror  before  him  that  he 
might  behold  the  majesty  of  his  appearance.  Abdalasis 
chid  her  fondly,  and  put  the  crown  away  from  him,  but 
Exilona  persisted  in  her  prayer.  "Never,"  said  she,  "has 
there  been  a  king  in  Spain  that  did  not  wear  a  crown."  So 
Abdalasis  suffered  himself  to  be  beguiled  by  the  blandish- 
ments of  his  wife,  and  to  be  invested  with  the  crown  and 
scepter  and  other  signs  of  royalty.* 

It  is  affirmed  by  ancient  and  discreet  chroniclers  that 
Abdalasis  only  assumed  this  royal  state  in  the  privacy  of  his 
palace,  and  to  gratify  the  eye  of  his  youthful  bride;  but 
where  was  a  secret  ever  confined  within  the  walls  of  a  palace? 
The  assumption  of  the  insignia  of  the  ancient  Gothic  kings 
was  soon  rumored  about,  and  caused  the  most  violent  sus- 
picions. The  Moslems  had  already  felt  jealous  of  the  as- 
cendency of  this  beautiful  woman,  and  it  was  now  confidently 
asserted  that  Abdalasis,  won  by  her  persuasions,  had  secretly 
turned  Christian. 

The  enemies  of  Abdalasis,  those  whose  rapacious  spirits 
had  been  kept  in  check  by  the  beneficence  of  his  rule,  seized 
upon  this  occasion  to  ruin  him.  They  sent  letters  to  Damas- 
cus accusing  him  of  apostasy,  and  of  an  intention  to  seize 
upon  the  throne  in  right  of  his  wife,  Exilona,  as  widow  of 
the  late  King  Roderick.  It  was  added,  that  the  Christians 
were  prepared  to  flock  to  his  standard  as  the  only  means  of 
regaining  ascendency  in  their  country. 

These   accusations   arrived  at   Damascus  just  after  the 


*  Cron.  gen.  de  Alonzo  el  Sabio,  p.  3.    Joan.  mar.  de  reb.  Hisp.  lib. 
6,  c.  27.    Conde,  p.  1,  c.  10. 


546  ll/or^s  of  U/asl?ii}<$top  Irvii><$ 

accession  of  the  sanguinary  Suleiman  to  the  throne,  and  in 
the  height  of  his  persecution  of  the  unfortunate  Muza.  The 
caliph  waited  for  no  proofs  in  confirmation ;  he  immediately 
sent  private  orders  that  Abdalasis  should  be  put  to  death, 
and  that  the  same  fate  should  be  dealt  to  his  two  brothers 
who  governed  in  Africa,  as  a  sure  means  of  crushing  the 
conspiracy  of  this  ambitious  family. 

The  mandate  for  the  death  of  Abdalasis  was  sent  to 
Abhilbar  ben  Obeidah  and  Zeyd  ben  Nabegat,  both  of  whom 
had  been  cherished  friends  of  Muza,  and  had  lived  in  inti- 
mate favor  and  companionship  with  his  son.  When  they 
read  the  fatal  parchment,  the  scroll  fell  from  their  trembling 
hands.  "Can  such  hostility  exist  against  the  family  of 
Muza?"  exclaimed  they.  "Is  this  the  reward  for  such  great 
and  glorious  services?"  The  cavaliers  remained  for  some 
time  plunged  in  horror  and  consternation.  The  order,  how- 
ever, was  absolute,  and  left  them  no  discretion.  "Allah  is 
great,"  said  they,  "and  commands  us  to  obey  our  sovereign." 
So  they  prepared  to  execute  the  bloody  mandate  with  the 
blind  fidelity  of  Moslems. 

It  was  necessary  to  proceed  with  caution.  The  open  and 
magnanimous  character  of  Abdalasis  had  won  the  hearts  of 
a  great  part  of  the  soldiery,  and  his  magnificence  pleased  the 
cavaliers  who  formed  his  guard ;  it  was  feared,  therefore, 
that  a  sanguinary  opposition  would  be  made  to  any  attempt 
upon  his  person.  The  rabble,  however,  had  been  imbittered 
against  him  from  his  having  restrained  their  depredations, 
and  because  they  thought  him  an  apostate  in  his  heart, 
secretly  bent  upon  betraying  them  to  the  Christians.  While, 
therefore,  the  two  officers  made  vigilant  dispositions  to  check 
any  movement  on  the  part  of  the  soldiery,  they  let  loose  the 
blind  fury  of  the  populace  by  publishing  the  fatal  mandate. 
In  a  moment  the  city  was  in  a  ferment,  and  there  was  a 
ferocious  emulation  who  should  be  first  to  execute  the  orders 
of  the  caliph. 

Abdalasis  was  at  this  time  at  a  palace  in  the  country  not 
far  from  Seville,  commanding  a  delightful  view  of  the  fertile 


Ce<$er?ds  of  tl?e  Soijquest  of  Spali?  547 

plain  of  the  Guadalquivir.  Hither  he  was  accustomed  to 
retire  from  the  tumult  of  the  court,  and  to  pass  his  time 
among  groves  and  fountains  and  the  sweet  repose  of  gardens, 
in  the  society  of  Exilona.  It  was  the  dawn  of  day,  the  hour 
of  early  prayer,  when  the  furious  populace  arrived  at  this 
retreat.  Abdalasis  was  offering  up  his  orisons  in  a  small 
mosque  which  he  had  erected  for  the  use  of  the  neighboring 
peasantry.  Exilona  was  in  a  chapel  in  the  interior  of  the 
palace,  where  her  confessor,  a  holy  friar,  was  performing 
mass.  They  were  both  surprised  at  their  devotions,  arid 
dragged  forth  by  the  hands  of  the  rabble.  A  few  guards, 
who  attended  at  the  palace,  would  have  made  defense,  but 
they  were  overawed  by  the  sight  of  the  written  mandate  of 
the  caliph. 

The  captives  were  borne  in  triumph  to  Seville.  All  the 
beneficent  virtues  of  Abdalasis  were  forgotten ;  nor  had  the 
charms  of  Exilona  any  effect  in  softening  the  hearts  of  the 
populace.  The  brutal  eagerness  to  shed  blood,  which  seems 
inherent  in  human  nature,  was  awakened,  and  woe  to  the 
victims  when  that  eagerness  is  quickened  by  religious  hate. 
The  illustrious  couple,  adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  youth 
and  beauty,  were  hurried  to  a  scaffold  in  the  great  square  of 
Seville,  and  there  beheaded  amid  the  shouts  and  execrations 
of  an  infatuated  multitude.  Their  bodies  were  left  exposed 
upon  the  ground,  and  would  have  been  devoured  by  dogs, 
had  they  not  been  gathered  at  night  by  some  friendly  hand, 
and  poorly  interred  in  one  of  the  courts  of  their  late  dwelling. 

Thus  terminated  the  loves  and  lives  of  Abdalasis  and 
Exilona,  in  the  year  of  the  incarnation  seven  hundred  and 
fourteen.  Their  names  were  held  sacred  as  martyrs  to  the 
Christian  faith ;  but  many  read  in  their  untimely  fate  a  les- 
son against  ambition  and  vainglory;  having  sacrificed  real 
power  and  substantial  rule  to  the  glittering  bauble  of  a 
crown. 

The  head  of  Abdalasis  was  embalmed  and  inclosed  in  a 
casket,  and  sent  to  Syria  to  the  cruel  Suleiman.  The  mes- 
senger who  bore  it  overtook  the  caliph  as  he  was  performing 


548  U/orKs  of  U/asl?ip<Jtoi) 

a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  Muza  was  among  the  courtiers  in 
his  train,  having  been  released  from  prison.  On  opening  the 
casket  and  regarding  its  contents,  the  eyes  of  the  tryant 
sparkled  with  malignant  satisfaction.  Calling  the  unhappy 
father  to  his  side:  "Muza,"  said  he,  "dost  thou  know  this 
head?"  The  veteran  recognized  the  features  of  his  beloved 
son,  and  turned  his  face  away  with  anguish.  "Yes!  well  do 
I  know  it,"  replied  he;  "and  may  the  curse  of  God  light  upon 
him  who  has  destroyed  a  better  man  than  himself!". 

Without  adding  another  word,  he  retired  to  Mount  Deran, 
a  prey  to  devouring  melancholy.  He  shortly  after  received 
tidings  of  the  death  of  his  two  sons  whom  he  had  left  in  the 
government  of  western  Africa,  and  who  had  fallen  victims  to 
the  jealous  suspicions  of  the  caliph.  His  advanced  age  was 
not  proof  against  these  repeated  blows,  and  this  utter  ruin  of 
his  late  prosperous  family,  and  he  sank  into  his  grave  sorrow- 
ing and  broken-hearted. 

Such  was  the  lamentable  end  of  the  conqueror  of  Spain; 
whose  great  achievements  were  not  sufficient  to  atone,  in  the 
eye  of  his  sovereign,  for  a  weakness  to  which  all  men  ambi- 
tious of  renown  are  subject ;  and  whose  triumphs  eventually 
brought  persecution  upon  himself  and  untimely  death  upon 
his  children. 

Here  ends  the  legend  of  the  Subjugation  of  Spain. 


Ce<$ei)d8  of  d?e  Sopquest  of  Spaip  549 


LEGEND    OF    COUNT    JULIAN     AND    HIS 
FAMILY 

IN  the  preceding  legends  is  darkly  shadowed  out  a  true 
story  of  the  woes  of  Spain.  It  is  a  story  full  of  wholesome 
admonition,  rebuking  the  insolence  of  human  pride  and  the 
vanity  of  human  ambition,  and  showing  the  futility  of  all 
greatness  that  is  not  strongly  based  on  virtue.  We  have 
seen,  in  brief  space  of  time,  most  of  the  actors  in  this  historic 
drama  disappearing,  one  by  one,  from  the  scene,  and  going 
down,  conqueror  and  conquered,  to  gloomy  and  unhonored 
graves.  It  remains  to  close  this  eventful  history  by  holding 
up,  as  a  signal  warning,  the  fate  of  the  traitor,  whose  per- 
fidious scheme  of  vengence  brought  ruin  on  his  native  land. 

Many  and  various  are  the  accounts  given  hi  ancient  chron- 
icles of  the  fortunes  of  Count  Julian  and  his  family,  and 
many  are  the  traditions  on  the  subject  still  extant  among  the 
populace  of  Spain,  and  perpetuated  in  those  countless  ballads 
sung  by  peasants  and  muleteers,  which  spread  a  singular 
charm  over  the  whole  of  this  romantic  land. 

He  who  has  traveled  in  Spain  in  the  true  way  in  which 
the  country  ought  to  be  traveled;  sojourning  in  its  remote 
provinces ;  rambling  among  the  rugged  defiles  and  secluded 
valleys  of  its  mountains ;  and  making  himself  familiar  with 
the  people  in  their  out-of-the-way  hamlets  and  rarely- visited 
neighborhoods,  will  remember  many  a  group  of  travelers 
and  muleteers,  gathered  of  an  evening  around  the  door  or 
the  spacious  hearth  of  a  mountain  venta,  wrapped  in  their 
brown  cloaks,  and  listening  with  grave  and  profound  atten- 
tion to  the  long  historic  ballad  of  some  rustic  troubadour, 
either  recited  with  the  true  ore  rotundo  and  modulated 


550  U/orK»  of 


cadences  of  Spanish  elocution,  or  chanted  to  the  tinkling  of 
a  guitar.  In  this  way  he  may  have  heard  the  doleful  end  of 
Count  Julian  and  his  family  recounted  in  traditionary  rhymes, 
that  have  been  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation. 
The  particulars,  however,  of  the  following  wild  legend  are 
chiefly  gathered  from  the  writings  of  the  pseudo  Moor, 
Rasis  ;  how  far  they  may  be  safely  taken  as  historic  facts  it 
is  impossible  now  to  ascertain;  we  must  content  ourselves, 
therefore,  with  their  answering  to  the  exactions  of  poetic 
justice. 

As  yet  everything  had  prospered  with  Count  Julian.  He 
had  gratified  his  vengeance  ;  he  had  been  successful  in  his 
treason,  and  had  acquired  countless  riches  from  the  ruin  of 
his  country.  But  it  is  not  outward  success  that  constitutes 
prosperity.  The  tree  flourishes  with  fruit  and  foliage  while 
blasted  and  withering  at  the  heart.  Wherever  he  went, 
Count  Julian  read  hatred  in  every  eye.  The  Christians 
cursed  him  as  the  cause  of  all  their  woe;  the  Moslems 
despised  and  distrusted  him  as  a  traitor.  Men  whispered 
together  as  he  approached,  and  then  turned  away  in  scorn; 
and  mothers  snatched  away  their  children  with  horror  if  he 
offered  to  caress  them.  He  withered  under  the  execration  of 
his  fellow-men,  and,  last,  and  worst  of  all,  he  began  to  loathe 
himself.  He  tried  in  vain  to  persuade  himself  that  he  had 
but  taken  a  justifiable  vengeance;  he  felt  that  no  personal 
wrong  can  justify  the  crime  of  treason  to  one's  country. 

For  a  time,  he  sought  in  luxurious  indulgence  to  soothe  or 
forget  the  miseries  of  the  mind.  He  assembled  round  him 
every  pleasure  and  gratification  that  boundless  wealth  could 
purchase,  but  all  in  vain.  He  had  no  relish  for  the  dainties 
of  his  board  ;  music  had  no  charm  wherewith  to  lull  his  soul, 
and  remorse  drove  slumber  from  his  pillow.  He  sent  to 
Ceuta  for  his  wife  Frandina,  his  daughter  Florinda  and  his 
youthful  son  Alarbot;  hoping  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  to 
find  that  sympathy  and  kindness  which  he  could  no  longer 
meet  with  in  the  world.  Their  presence,  however,  brought 
him  no  alleviation.  Florinda,  the  daughter  of  his  heart,  for 


Ce<$er}ds  of  tf?e  Qopquest  of  Spair?  551 

whose  sake  he  had  undertaken  this  signal  vengeance,  was 
sinking  a  victim  to  its  effects.  "Wherever  she  went,  she 
found  herself  a  byword  of  shame  and  reproach.  The  out- 
rage she  had  suffered  was  imputed  to  her  as  wantonness,  and 
her  calamity  was  magnified  into  a  crime.  The  Christians 
never  mentioned  her  name  without  a  curse,  and  the  Moslems, 
the  gainers  by  her  misfortune,  spoke  of  her  only  by  the 
appellation  of  Cava,  the  vilest  epithet  they  could  apply  to 
a  woman. 

But  the  opprobrium  of  the  world  was  nothing  to  the  up- 
braiding of  her  own  heart.  She  charged  herself  with  all  the 
miseries  of  these  disastrous  wars ;  the  deaths  of  so  many  gal- 
lant cavaliers;  the  conquest  and  perdition  of  her  country. 
The  anguish  of  her  mind  preyed  upon  the  beauty  of  her  per- 
son. Her  eye,  once  soft  and  tender  in  its  expression,  became 
wild  and  haggard ;  her  cheek  lost  its  bloom,  and  became  hol- 
low and  pallid,  and  at  times  there  was  desperation  in  her 
words.  When  her  father  sought  to  embrace  her  she  with- 
drew with  shuddering  from  his  arms,  for  she  thought  of  his 
treason  and  the  ruin  it  had  brought  upon  Spain.  Her  wretch- 
edness increased  after  her  return  to  her  native  country,  until 
it  rose  to  a  degree  of  frenzy.  One  day  when  she  was  walk- 
ing with  her  parents  in  the  garden  of  their  palace,  she  en- 
tered a  tower,  and,  having  barred  the  door,  ascended  to  the 
battlements.  From  thence  she  called  to  them  in  piercing 
accents,  expressive  of  her  insupportable  anguish  and  des- 
perate determination.  "Let  this  city,"  said  she,  "be  hence- 
forth called  Malacca,  hi  memorial  of  the  most  wretched  of 
women,  who  therein  put  an  end  to  her  days."  So  saying, 
she  threw  herself  headlong  from  the  tower  and  was  dashed 
to  pieces.  The  city,  adds  the  ancient  chronicler,  received 
the  name  thus  given  it,  though  afterward  softened  to  Mal- 
aga, which  it  still  retains  in  memory  of  the  tragical  end 
of  Florinda. 

The  Countess  Frandina  abandoned  this  scene  of  woe,  and 
returned  to  Ceuta,  accompanied  by  her  infant  son.  She  took 
with  her  the  remains  of  her  unfortunate  daughter,  and  gave 


552  U/orks  of  U/asbii)$tor; 

them  honorable  sepulcher  in  a  mausoleum  of  the  chapel  be- 
longing to  the  citadel.  Count  Julian  departed  for  Cartha- 
gena,  where  he  remained  plunged  in  horror  at  this  doleful 
event. 

About  this  time,  the  cruel  Suleiman,  having  destroyed 
the  family  of  Muza,  had  sent  an  Arab  general,  named  Alahor, 
to  succeed  Abdalasis  as  emir  or  governor  of  Spain.  The  new 
emu*  was  of  a  cruel  and  suspicious  nature,  and  commenced 
his  sway  with  a  stern  severity  that  soon  made  those  under 
his  command  look  back  with  regret  to  the  easy  rule  of  Abda- 
lasis. He  regarded  with  an  eye  of  distrust  the  renegado 
Christians  who  had  aided  in  the  conquest,  and  who  bore 
arms  in  the  service  of  the  Moslems;  but  his  deepest  suspi- 
cions fell  upon  Count  Julian.  "He  has  been  a  traitor  to  his 
own  countrymen,"  said  he,  "how  can  we  be  sure  that  he 
will  not  prove  traitor  to  us?" 

A  sudden  insurrection  of  the  Christians  who  had  taken 
refuge  in  the  Asturian  mountains,  quickened  his  suspicions, 
and  inspired  him  with  fears  of  some  dangerous  conspiracy 
against  his  power.  In  the  height  of  his  anxiety,  he  be- 
thought him  of  an  Arabian  sage  named  Yuza,  who  had 
accompanied  him  from  Africa.  This  son  of  science  was 
withered  in  form,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  outlived  the  usual 
term  of  mortal  life.  In  the  course  of  his  studies  and  travels 
in  the  east  he  had  collected  the  knowledge  and  experience 
of  ages;  being  skilled  in  astrology,  and,  it  is  said,  in  necro- 
mancy, and  possessing  the  marvelous  gift  of  prophecy  or 
divination.  To  this  expounder  of  mysteries  Alahor  applied  to 
learn  whether  any  secret  treason  menaced  his  safety. 

The  astrologer  listened  with  deep  attention,  and  over- 
whelming brow,  to  all  the  surmises  and  suspicions  of  the 
emir,  then  shut  himself  up  to  consult  his  books  and  com- 
mune with  those  supernatural  intelligences  subservient  to 
his  wisdom.  At  an  appointed  hour  the  emir  sought  him  in 
his  cell.  It  was  filled  with  the  smoke  of  perfumes;  squares 
and  circles  and  various  diagrams  were  described  upon  the 
floor,  and  the  astrologer  was  poring  over  a  scroll  of  parch- 


Ce$er?ds  of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spaii?  553 

ment,  covered  with  cabalistic  characters.  He  received  Alahor 
with  a  gloomy  and  sinister  aspect ;  pretending  to  have  dis- 
covered fearful  portents  in  the  heavens,  and  to  have  had 
strange  dreams  and  mystic  visions. 

"O  emir,"  said  he,  "be  on  your  guard  J  treason  is  around 
you  and  in  your  path ;  your  lif e  is  in  peril.  Beware  of  Count 
Julian  and  his  family." 

' '  Enough, ' '  said  the  emir.  « '  They  shaU  all  die !  Parents 
and  children — all  shall  die!" 

He  forthwith  sent  a  summons  to  Count  Julian  to  attend 
him  in  Cordova.  The  messenger  found  him  plunged  in 
affliction  for  the  recent  death  of  his  daughter.  The  count 
excused  himself,  on  account  of  this  misfortune,  from  obeying 
the  commands  of  the  emir  in  person,  but  sent  several  of  his 
adherents.  His  hesitation,  and  the  circumstance  of  his  hav- 
ing sent  his  family  across  the  straits  to  Africa,  were  con. 
strued  by  the  jealous  mind  of  the  emir  into  proofs  of  guilt. 
He  no  longer  doubted  his  being  concerned  in  the  recent  insur- 
rections, and  that  he  had  sent  his  family  away,  preparatory 
to  an  attempt,  by  force  of  arms,  to  subvert  the  Moslem  domi- 
nation. In  his  fury  he  put  to  death  Siseburto  and  Evan,  the 
nephews  of  Bishop  Oppas,  and  sons  of  the  former  king, 
Witiza",  suspecting  them  of  taking  part  in  the  treason.  Thus 
did  they  expiate  their  treachery  to  their  country  in  the  fatal 
battle  of  the  Guadalete. 

Alahor  next  hastened  to  Carthagena  to  seize  upon  Count 
Julian.  So  rapid  were  his  movements  that  the  count  had 
barely  time  to  escape  with  fifteen  cavaliers,  with  whom  he 
took  refuge  in  the  strong  castle  of  Marcuello,  among  the 
mountains  of  Aragon.  The  emir,  enraged  to  be  disap- 
pointed of  his  prey,  embarked  at  Carthagena  and  crossed  the 
straits  to  Ceuta,  to  make  captives  of  the  Countess  Frandina 
and  her  son. 

The  old  chronicle  from  which  we  take  this  part  of  our 
legend  presents  a  gloomy  picture  of  the  countess  in  the  stern 
fortress  to  which  she  had  fled  for  refuge ;  a  picture  height- 
ened by  supernatural  horrors.  These  latter,  the  sagacious 
*  *  *M  VOL.  I. 


B54  U/orKs  of  U/a8l?io$toi)  Irv!i}<} 

reader  will  admit  or  reject  according  to  the  measure  of  his 
faith  and  judgment ;  always  remembering  that  in  dark  and 
eventful  times,  like  those  in  question,  involving  the  destinies 
of  nations,  the  downfall  of  kingdoms,  and  the  crimes  of  rulers 
and  mighty  men,  the  hand  of  fate  is  sometimes  strangely 
visible,  and  confounds  the  wisdom  of  the  worldly  wise,  by 
intimations  and  portents  above  the  ordinary  course  of  things. 
With  this  proviso,  we  make  no  scruple  to  follow  the  venerable 
chronicler  in  his  narration. 

Now  so  it  happened  that  the  countess  of  Frandina  was 
seated  late  at  night  in  her  chamber  in  the  citadel  of  Ceuta, 
which  stands  on  a  lofty  rock,  overlooking  the  sea.  She  was 
revolving  hi  gloomy  thought  the  late  disasters  of  her  family, 
when  she  heard  a  mournful  noise  like  that  of  the  sea  breeze 
moaning  about  the  castle  walls.  Raising  her  eyes,  she  be- 
held her  brother,  the  Bishop  Oppas,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
chamber.  She  advanced  to  embrace  him,  but  he  forbade  her 
with  a  motion  of  his  hand,  and  she  observed  that  he  was 
ghastly  pale,  and  that  his  eyes  glared  as  with  lambent  flames, 

"Touch  me  not,  sister,"  said  he,  with  a  mournful  voice, 
"lest  thou  be  consumed  by  the  fire  which  rages  within  me. 
Guard  well  thy  son,  for  bloodhounds  are  upon  his  track. 
His  innocence  might  have  secured  him  the  protection  of 
heaven,  but  our  crimes  have  involved  him  in  our  common 
rum."  He  ceased  to  speak  and  was  no  longer  to  be  seen. 
His  coming  and  going  were  alike  without  noise,  and  the  door 
of  the  chamber  remained  fast  bolted. 

On  the  following  morning  a  messenger  arrived  with  tid- 
ings that  the  Bishop  Oppas  had  been  made  prisoner  in  battle 
by  the  insurgent  Christians  of  the  Asturias,  and  had  died  in 
fetters  in  a  tower  of  the  mountains.  The  same  messenger 
brought  word  that  the  Emir  Alahor  had  put  to  death  several 
of  the  friends  of  Count  Julian ;  had  obliged  him  to  fly  for 
his  life  to  a  castle  in  Arragon,  and  was  embarking  with  a 
formidable  force  for  Ceuta. 

The  Countess  Frandina,  as  has  already  been  shown,  was 
of  courageous  heart,  and  danger  made  her  desperate.  There 


Ce<$ei)ds  of  tl?e  <?oi)quest  of  Spaip  565 

were  fifty  Moorish  soldiers  in  the  garrison ;  she  feared  that 
they  would  prove  treacherous,  and  take  part  with  their  coun- 
trymen. Summoning  her  officers,  therefore,  she  informed 
them  of  their  danger,  and  commanded  them  to  put  those 
Moors  to  death.  The  guards  sallied  forth  to  obey  her  or- 
ders. Thirty-five  of  the  Moors  were  in  the  great  square,  un- 
suspicious of  any  danger,  when  they  were  severally  singled 
out  by  their  executioners,  and,  at  a  concerted  signal,  killed 
on  the  spot.  The  remaining  fifteen  took  refuge  in  a  tower. 
They  saw  the  armada  of  the  emir  at  a  distance,  and  hoped 
to  be  able  to  hold  out  until  its  arrival.  The  soldiers  of  the 
countess  saw  it  also,  and  made  extraordinary  efforts  to  de- 
stroy these  internal  enemies  before  they  should  be  attacked 
from  without.  They  made  repeated  attempts  to  storm  the 
tower,  but  were  as  often  repulsed  with  severe  loss.  They 
then  undermined  it,  supporting  its  foundations  by  stanchions 
of  wood.  To  these  they  set  fire  and  withdrew  to  a  distance, 
keeping  up  a  constant  shower  of  missiles  to  prevent  the  Moors 
from  sallying  forth  to  extinguish  the  flames.  The  stanchions 
were  rapidly  consumed,  and  when  they  gave  way  the  tower 
fell  to  the  ground.  Some  of  the  Moors  were  crushed  among 
the  ruins;  others  were  flung  to  a  distance  and  dashed  among 
the  rocks;  those  who  survived  were  instantly  put  to  the 
sword. 

The  fleet  of  the  emir  arrived  at  Ceuta  about  the  hour  of 
vespers.  He  landed,  but  found  the  gates  closed  against  him. 
The  countess  herself  spoke  to  him  from  a  tower,  and  set  him 
at  defiance.  The  emir  immediately  laid  siege  to  the  city. 
He  consulted  the  astrologer  Yuza,  who  told  him  that  for 
seven  days  his  star  would  have  the  ascendant  over  that  of 
the  youth  Alarbot,  but  after  that  time  the  youth  would  be 
safe  from  his  power,  and  would  effect  his  ruin. 

Alahor  immediately  ordered  the  city  to  be  assailed  on 
every  side,  and  at  length  carried  it  by  storm.  The  countess 
took  refuge  with  her  forces  in  the  citadel  and  made  desperate 
defense,  but  the  walls  were  sapped  and  mined,  and  she  saw 
that  all  resistance  would  soon  be  unavailing.  Her  only 


556  U/orKs  of  U/asI?ii}$toi) 

thoughts  now  were  to  conceal  her  child.  "Surely,'*  said 
she,  "they  will  not  think  of  seeking  him  among  the  dead.'* 
She  led  him  therefore  into  the  dark  and  dismal  chapel. 
"Thou  art  not  afraid  to  be  alone  hi  this  darkness,  my  child," 
said  she. 

"No,  mother,"  replied  the  boy,  "darkness  gives  silence 
and  sleep."  She  conducted  him  to  the  tomb  of  Florinda. 
"Fearest  thou  the  dead,  my  child?"  "No,  mother,  the  dead 
can  do  no  harm,  and  what  should  I  fear  from  my  sister?" 

The  countess  opened  the  sepulcher.  "Listen,  my  son," 
said  she.  "There  are  fierce  and  cruel  people  who  have  come 
hither  to  murder  thee.  Stay  here  in  company  with  thy  sis- 
ter, and  be  quiet  as  thou  dost  value  thy  life!"  The  boy, 
who  was  of  a  courageous  nature,  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and 
remained  there  all  that  day,  and  all  the  night,  and  the  next 
day  until  the  third  hour. 

In  the  meantime  the  walls  of  the  citadel  were  sapped,  the 
troops  of  the  emir  poured  in  at  the  breach,  and  a  great  part 
of  the  garrison  was  put  to  the  sword.  The  countess  was 
taken  prisoner  and  brought  before  the  emir.  She  appeared 
in  his  presence  with  a  haughty  demeanor,  as  if  she  had  been 
a  queen  receiving  homage;  but  when  he  demanded  her  son, 
she  faltered  and  turned  pale  and  replied,  "My  son  is  with 
the  dead." 

"Countess,"  said  the  emir,  "I  am  not  to  be  deceived;  tell 
me  where  you  have  concealed  the  boy,  or  tortures  shall  wring 
from  you  the  secret." 

"Emir,"  replied  the  countess,  "may  the  greatest  torments 
be  my  portion,  both  here  and  hereafter,  if  what  I  speak  be 
not  the  truth.  My  darling  child  lies  buried  with  the  dead." 

The  emir  was  confounded  by  the  solemnity  of  her  words; 
but  the  withered  astrologer  Yuza,  who  stood  by  his  side  re- 
garding the  countess  from  beneath  his  bushed  eyebrows,  per- 
ceived trouble  in  her  countenance  and  equivocation  in  her 
words.  "Leave  this  matter  to  me,"  whispered  he  to  Alahor, 
"I  will  produce  the  child." 

He  ordered  strict  search  to  be  made  by  the  soldiery,  and 


Ce$ei?ds  of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spaip  557 

he  obliged  the  countess  to  be  always  present.  When  they 
came  to  the  chapel,  her  cheek  turned  pale  and  her  lip  quiv- 
ered. "This,"  said  the  subtile  astrologer,  "is  the  place  of 
concealment!" 

The  search  throughout  the  chapel,  however,  was  equally 
vain,  and  the  soldiers  were  about  to  depart,  when  Yuza  re- 
marked a  slight  gleam  of  joy  in  the  eye  of  the  countess. 
"We  are  leaving  our  prey  behind,"  thought  he,  "the  countess 
is  exulting." 

He  now  called  to  mind  the  words  of  her  asseveration,  that 
her  child  was  with  the  dead.  Turning  suddenly  to  the  sol- 
diers be  ordered  them  to  search  the  sepulchers.  "If  you  find 
him  not,"  said  he,  "drag  forth  the  bones  of  that  wanton 
Cava,  that  they  may  be  burned,  and  the  ashes  scattered  to 
the  winds." 

The  soldiers  searched  among  the  tombs  and  found  that 
of  Florinda  partly  open.  Within  lay  the  boy  in  the  sound 
sleep  of  childhood,  and  one  of  the  soldiers  took  him  gently  in 
his  arms  to  bear  him  to  the  emir. 

When  the  countess  beheld  that  her  child  was  discovered, 
she  rushed  into  the  presence  of  Alahor,  and,  forgetting  all 
her  pride,  threw  herself  upon  her  knees  before  him. 

"Mercy!  mercy!"  cried  she  in  piercing  accents,  "mercy 
on  my  son — my  only  child!  O  emir!  listen  to  a  mother's 
prayer,  and  my  lips  shall  kiss  thy  feet.  As  thou  art  merci- 
ful to  him,  so  may  the  most  high  God  have  mercy  upon  thee, 
and  heap  blessings  on  thy  head." 

"Bear  that  frantic  woman  hence,"  said  the  emir,  "but 
guard  her  well." 

The  countess  was  dragged  away  by  the  soldiery  without 
regard  to  her  struggles  and  her  cries,  and  confined  in  a  dun- 
geon of  the  citadel. 

The  child  was  now  brought  to  the  emir.  He  had  been 
awakened  by  the  tumult,  but  gazed  fearlessly  on  the  stern 
countenances  of  the  soldiers.  Had  the  heart  of  the  emir  been 
capable  of  pity,  it  would  have  been  touched  by  the  tender 
youth  and  innocent  beauty  of  the  child ;  but  his  heart  was  as 


558  U/orKs  of  U/asbip$tor> 

the  nether  millstone,  and  he  was  bent  upon  the  destruction  of 
the  whole  family  of  Julian.  Calling  to  him  the  astrologer, 
he  gave  the  child  into  his  charge  with  a  secret  command. 
The  withered  son  of  the  desert  took  the  boy  by  the  hand  and 
led  him  up  the  winding  staircase  of  a  tower.  When  they 
reached  the  summit  Yuza  placed  him  on  the  battlements. 

"Cling  not  to  me,  my  child,"  said  he,  "there  is  no  dan- 
ger." 

"Father,  I  fear  not,"  said  the  undaunted  boy,  "yet  it  is 
a  wondrous  height!" 

The  child  looked  around  with  delighted  eyes.  The  breeze 
blew  his  curling  locks  from  about  his  face,  and  his  cheek 
glowed  at  the  boundless  prospect;  for  the  tower  was  reared 
upon  that  lofty  promontory  on  which  Hercules  founded  one 
of  his  pillars.  The  surges  of  the  sea  were  heard  far  below, 
beating  upon  the  rocks,  the  seagull  screamed  and  wheeled 
about  the  foundations  of  the  tower,  and  the  sails  of  lofty 
caraccas  were  as  mere  specks  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

"Dost  thou  know  yonder  land  beyond  the  blue  water?" 
said  Yuza. 

"It  is  Spain,"  replied  the  boy,  "it  is  the  land  of  my  father 
and  my  mother." 

"Then  stretch  forth  thy  hands  and  bless  it,  my  child," 
said  the  astrologer. 

The  boy  let  go  his  hold  of  the  wall,  and,  as  he  stretched 
forth  his  hands,  the  aged  son  of  Ishmael,  exerting  all  the 
strength  of  his  withered  limbs,  suddenly  pushed  him  over 
the  battlements.  He  fell  headlong  from  the  top  of  that  tall 
tower,  and  not  a  bone  in  his  tender  frame  but  was  crushed 
upon  the  rocks  beneath. 

Alahor  came  to  the  foot  of  the  winding  stairs. 

"Is  the  boy  safe?"  cried  he. 

"He  is  safe,"  replied  Yuza;  "come  and  behold  the  truth 
with  thine  own  eyes." 

The  emir  ascended  the  tower  and  looked  over  the  battle- 
ments, and  beheld  the  body  of  the  child,  a  shapeless  mass, 
on  the  rocks  far  below,  and  the  seagulls  hovering  about ;  and 


of  tl?e  <?opquest  of  Spair?  559 

he  gave  orders  that  it  should  be  thrown  into  the  sea,  which 
was  done. 

On  the  following  morning,  the  countess  was  led  forth 
from  her  dungeon  into  the  public  square.  She  knew  of  the 
death  of  her  child,  and  that  her  own  death  was  at  hand,  but 
she  neither  wept  nor  supplicated.  Her  hair  was  disheveled, 
her  eyes  were  haggard  with  watching,  and  her  cheek  was  as 
the  monumental  stone,  but  there  were  the  remains  of  com- 
manding beauty  in  her  countenance,  and  the  majesty  of  her 
presence  awed  even  the  rabble  into  respect. 

A  multitude  of  Christian  prisoners  were  then  brought 
forth;  and  Alahor  cried  out — "Behold  the  wife  of  Count 
Julian;  behold  one  of  that  traitorous  family  which  has 
brought  ruin  upon  yourselves  and  upon  your  country. ' '  And 
he  ordered  that  they  should  stone  her  to  death.  But  the 
Christians  drew  back  with  horror  from  the  deed,  and  said — 
"In  the  hand  of  God  is  vengeance,  let  not  her  blood  be  upon 
our  heads."  Upon  this  the  emir  swore  with  horrid  impreca- 
tions that  whoever  of  the  captives  refused  should  himself  be 
stoned  to  death.  So  the  cruel  order  was  executed,  and  the 
Countess  Frandina  perished  by  the  hands  of  her  countrymen. 
Having  thus  accomplished  his  barbarous  errand,  the  emir 
embarked  for  Spain,  and  ordered  the  citadel  of  Ceuta  to  be 
set  on  fire,  and  crossed  the  straits  at  night  by  the  light  of  its 
towering  flames. 

The  death  of  Count  Julian,  which  took  place  not  long 
after,  closed  the  tragic  story  of  his  family.  How  he  died  re- 
mains involved  in  doubt.  Some  assert  that  the  cruel  Alahor 
pursued  nim  to  his  retreat  among  the  mountains,  and,  having 
taken  him  prisoner,  beheaded  him;  others  that  the  Moors 
confined  him  in  a  dungeon,  and  put  an  end  to  his  life  with 
lingering  torments;  while  others  affirm  that  the  tower  of  the 
castle  of  Marcuello,  near  Huesca,  in  Aragon,  in  which  he 
took  refuge,  fell  on  him  and  crushed  him  to  pieces.  All 
agree  that  his  latter  end  was  miserable  in  the  extreme,  and 
his  death  violent.  The  curse  of  heaven,  which  had  thus 
pursued  him  to  the  grave,  was  extended  to  the  very  place 


560  U/orKs  of  U/a8bii?$toi> 

which  had  given  him  shelter ;  for  we  are  told  that  the  castle 
is  no  longer  inhabited  on  account  of  the  strange  and  horrible 
noises  that  are  heard  in  it;  and  that  visions  of  armed  men 
are  seen  above  it  in  the  air;  which  are  supposed  to  be  the 
troubled  spirits  of  the  apostate  Christians  who  favored  the 
cause  of  the  traitor. 

In  after  times  a  stone  sepulcher  was  shown,  outside  of 
the  chapel  of  the  castle,  as  the  tomb  of  Count  Julian ;  but 
the  traveler  and  the  pilgrim  avoided  it,  or  bestowed  upon  it 
a  malediction ;  and  the  name  of  Julian  has  remained  a  by- 
word and  a  scorn  in  the  land  for  the  warning  of  all  genera- 
tions. Such  ever  be  the  lot  of  him  who  betrays  his  country. 

Here  end  the  legends  of  the  conquest  of  Spam. 
Written  in  the  Alhambra,  June  10,  1839. 


NOTE  TO  THE  PRECEDING  LEGEND 

EL  licenciado  Ardevines  (Lib.  2,  c.  8),  dize  que  dichos 
Duendos  caseros,  o  los  del  aire,  hazen  aparacer  exercitos  y 
peleas,  como  lo  que  se  cuenta  por  tradicion  (y  aun  algunos 
personas  lo  deponen  como  testigos  de  vista)  de  la  torre  y 
castello  de  Marcuello,  lugar  al  pie  de  las  montanas  de  Aragon 
(aora  inhabitable,  por  las  grandes  y  espantables  ruidos,  que 
en  el  se  oyen)  donde  se  retraxo  el  Conde  Don  Julian,  causa 
de  la  perdicion  de  Espana;  sobre  el  qual  castillo,  deze  se  ven 
en  el  aire  ciertas  visiones,  como  de  soldados,  que  el  vulgo  dize 
son  los  cavalleros  y  gente  que  le  favorecian. 

Vide  "el  Ente  Dislucidado,  por  Fray  Antonio  de  Fuenta- 
lapena  capuchin.  Seccion  3.  Subseccion  5.  Instancia  8. 
Num.  644." 

As  readers  unversed  in  the  Spanish  language  may  wish 
fco  know  the  testimony  of  the  worthy  and  discreet  Capuchin 
friar,  Antonio  de  Fuentalapena,  we  subjoin  a  translation 
of  it. 


of  tl?e  Sopquest  of  Spaii?  561 

"The  licentiate  Ardevines  (Book  II.,  chap.  8),  says,  that 
the  said  house-fairies  (or  familiar  spirits),  or  those  of  the  air, 
cause  the  apparitions  of  armies  and  battles ;  such  as  those 
which  are  related  in  tradition  (and  some  persons  even  depose 
to  the  truth  of  them  as  eye-witnesses),  of  the  town  and  castle 
of  Marcuello,  a  fortress  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains  of 
Aragon  (at  present  uninhabitable,  on  account  of  the  great 
and  frightful  noises  heard  in  it),  the  place  of  retreat  of 
Count  Don  Julian,  the  cause  of  the  perdition  of  Spain.  It  is 
said  that  certain  apparitions  of  soldiers  are  seen  in  the  air, 
which  the  vulgar  say  are  those  of  the  courtiers  and  the  peopl® 
who  aided  him." 


END   OF   VOLUME   ONI 


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